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FEB 19 1965 
MAR a Rap. 


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MAR 24 i986 


L161— 0-1096 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 
AND OTHER TALES 


BY 


RUDYARD KIPLING 


AUTHOR OF “PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS,” “SOLDIERS THREE,” 
“MINE OWN PEOPLE,’’ ETC,, ETC. 


NEW YORK 
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER 


2 All that the fee is certain of is, that 
one man insisted ape dying because he believed 


op a . wonderful he and ek to it, or visited a very 
_ strange place; while the third man was s indubitably 


se 


you must take on trust ; as I did. 
oR RUDYARD KIPLING. 


ie 


i 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

PENG PEON LOLs TICKSHAW 4 s'c.s cx eeibiae te ove She's bees mourns us 1 
The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes.............+... Meee ba) 
ene Man WiNO2VW OUld DG RING cit ai ating ad's s veeioieie seen ees 69 
My own True Ghost Story..... BOING a Denis rece sa. ee ORE 123 
aS MOS bY GG ING ray cy vee eek e ss sages Ot See 136 
Wee Willie Winkie.............. AeeR eee ER Lewy Dans Cues 152 
MBH Tat Io AOK SHACED) + one % veel cle Sot bee’ Ue 'g. wae’ a has waa on 168 
aie Macness-of..Private Ortheris . 35.03. sss oss ce pe ole ben cce's 209 
eee SLOly oi a Ubammad: WIN roc ieee ea oa ce ene beste 221 
On- the streneth of a Likenesas eas. ives cect vereens as 226 
Wressiey ofthe Foreton: OMG... iia occ ted cieies ohele cos en's 234 
ee WV ret MOUGITL A ect we a wna t's ce Suck kn lak eke ceases 242 
PO DEAM LOG: T OTe ROLOLONCG, She vines Gerais sas dG cut bee ice a sigs 249 
ene Drama of the Bore and Att. o. 0. cys ccc auis Hels cece es sacs 261 
A Wayside Comedy........ Va eeces EE ean poate »» 309 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 


May no ill dreams disturb my rest, 
Nor Powers of Darkness me molest. 
Evening Hymn. 


Ons of the few advantages that India has over 
England is a great Knowability. After five years’ 
service a man is directly or indirectly acquainted 
with the two or three hundred Civilians in his 
Province, all the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments 
and Batteries, and some fifteen hundred other 
people of the non-official caste. In ten years his 

knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of 
twenty he knows, or knows searing about, every 
Englishman in the Empire, and may travel any- 


: where and everywhere without paying hotel-bills. 


- Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a 
right have, even within my memory, blunted this 
-open-heartedness, but none the less to-day, if you 
belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear 
nor a black Sheep, all houses are open to you, and 


our small world is very, very kind and helpful. 


Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Ku- 
maon some fifteen years ago. He meant to stay 
two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic 


THE PHANTOM ‘RICKSHAW. 


fever, and for six weeks disorganized Polder’s es- 
tablishment, stopped Polder’s work, and nearly died — 
in Polder’s bedroom. Polder behaves as though he ~ 
had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, © 
and yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of presents — 
and toys. It is the same everywhere. The men 
who do not take the trouble to conceal from you — 
their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and 
the women who blacken your character and misun- 
derstand your wife’s amusements, will work them- 
selves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick Or: << 
into serious trouble. yee 
Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to He is 
regular practise, a hospital on his private account— 
an arrangement of loose boxes for Incurables, his : 
friend called it—but it was really a sort of fittmg- — 
up shed for craft that had been damaged by stress 2 
of weather. The weather in India is often sultry, : 
and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed sage e 
tity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to — 
work overtime and get no thanks, men occasionally — 
break down and become as mixed as the Bee” 
in this sentence. ae 
Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever > was,” 
and his invariable prescription to all his patienhe: : 
“Lie low, go slow, and keep cool.”’? He says that 
more men are killed by overwork than the impor- 
tance of this world justifies. He maintains that 
overwork slew Pansay, who died under his hands 
about three years ago. He has, of course, the right 
to speak authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory 


ton 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. ‘3 


that there was a crack in Pansay’s head and a little 
bit of the Dark World came through and pressed 
him to death. ‘ Pansay went off the handle,” says 


-Heatherlegh, “ after the stimulus of long leave at 


Home. He may or he may not have behaved like a 
blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion 
is that the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran 
him off his legs, and that he took to brooding and 
making much of an ordinary P. & O. flirtation. He 
certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she 
certainly broke off the engagement. Then he took 
a feverish chill and all that nonsense about ghosts 
developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it 
alight, and killed him, poor devil. Write him off 
to the System—one man to take the work of two 
and a half men.” | 

I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pan- 
say sometimes when Heatherlegh was called out to 
patients, and I happened to be within claim. The 
man would make me most unhappy by describing 
in a low, even voice, the procession that was always 


= passing at the bottom of his bed. He had a sick 


man’s command of language. When he recovered 
I suggested that he should write out the whole affair 
from beginning to end, knowing that ink might 
assist him to ease. his mind. When little boys 
have learned a new bad word they are never happy 
till they have chalked it up on a door. And this 
also is Literature. 

He was in a high fever while he was writing, and 
the blood-and-thunder Magazine diction he adopted 


dis: vowing at the last fiat he ayes ee le 
OS his manuscript before he died, and this 
version of the affair, dated 1885 :- aS 


nor the rated gun can break, and hie | 
far beyond — that which any — homeward 
steamer can give me. 


weary earth was ever sO ; tormented as. i. 
Pens 2 now as a condemned criminal 


Sak least attention. That it- will ever Me ve 
dence I utterly disbelieve. Two months ago she 
“have scouted as mad or drunk the man. 
ee tell me the like. Two months ago I 
happiest man in India. To-day, from ‘Pes 
- the sea, there is no one more wretched. 
and I are the only two who know, thi a 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. — 5 


are all slightly affected; giving rise to my frequent 
and persistent “delusions.” Delusions, indeed! | 
call him a fool; but he attends me still with the 
same unwearied smile, the same bland professional 
manner, the same neatly trimmed red whiskers, till 
I begin to suspect that 1 am an ungrateful, evil- 
tempered invalid. But you shall judge for your- 
selves. Three years ago it was my fortune—my 
great misfortune—to sail from Gravesend to Bom- 
‘bay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes 
 Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay 
side. It does not in the least concern you to know 
what manner of woman she was. Be content with 
the knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both 
she and I were desperately and unreasoningly in 
love with one another. Heaven knows that I can 
make the admission@now without one particle of 
vanity. In matters of this sort there is always one 
- who gives and another who accepts. From the 
So first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was con- 
scious that Agnes’s passion was a stronger, a more 
dominant, and—if I may use the expression—a 
purer sentiment than mine. Whether she recognized 
the fact then, I do not know. Afterwards it was 
bitterly plain to both of us. 
Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we 
- went our respective ways to meet no more for the 
next three or four months, when my leave and her 
love took us both to Simla. There we spent the 
_ season together; and there my fire of straw burnt 
itself out to a pitiful end with the closing year. I 


Sees ey 


6 ss THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. | 


attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. 
Wessington had given up much for my sake, and 
was prepared to give up all. From my own lips, in 


August, 1882, she learnt that I was sick of her pres- — oe 


ence, tired of her company, and weary of the sound 
of her voice. Ninety-nine women out of a hundred — 
would have wearied of me as I wearied of them ; 


seventy-five of that number would have promptly c 2 


avenged themselves by active and obtrusive flirtation. 


with other men. Mrs. Wessington was the hun- — oS 
dredth. On her neither my openly expressed aver- 


sion nor the cutting brutalities with which I gar- 
nished our interviews had the least effect. 

“Jack, darling!’’ was her one eternal cuckoo 
ery: “Tmsure it’s all a mistake—a hideous mistake ; 


and we'll be good friends again some day. Please 


forgive me, Jack, dear.’ : 

I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowl- 
edge transformed my pity into passive endurance, — 
and, eventually, into blind hate—the same instinct, 
I suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp 


on the spider he has but half killed. And with this ~ es 


hate in my bosom the season of 1882 came to an 
end. | 


Next year we met again at Simla-—-she with ae er, 
monotonous face and timid attempts atreconcilation,  _ 
and I with loathing of her in every fiber of iy 8 
frame. Several times I could not avoidmeeting her __ 
alone; and on each occasion her words were’ identi- — Oe 
cally the same. Still the unreasoning wail that it 
was all a “ mistake’; and still the hope of event- _ 


THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW. 7 


ually “ making friends.” I might have seen, had I 
cared to look, that that hope only was keeping her 
alive. She grew more wan and thin month by 
month. You will agree with me, at least, that such 
conduct would have driven any one to despair. It 
was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I main- 
tain that she was much toblame. And again, some- 
times, in the black, fever-stricxen night-watches, I 
have begnn to think that I might have been a little 
kinder to her. But that really 7¢a “delusion.” I 
could not have continued pretending to love her 
when I didn’t; could I? It would have been unfair 
to us both. 

Last year we met again—on the same terms as be- 
fore.. The same weary appeals, and the same curt 
answers from my lips. At least I would make her 
see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her at- 
tempts at resuming the old relationship. As the 
season wore on, we fell apart—that is to say, she 
found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and 
more absorbing interests to attend to. When I 
think it over quietly in my sick-room, the season of 
1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and 
shade were fantastically intermingled—my court- 
ship of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubts, 
and fears; our long rides together; my trembling 
avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and 
again a vision of a white face flitting by in the ’rick- 
shaw with the black and white liveries I once 
watched for so earnestly ; the wave of Mrs. Wes. 
sington’s gloved hand; and, when she met me alone, 


cid ua at 


* 

( B 
\ 

id 


8 THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 


which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of 
her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering ; honestly, 
heartily loved her, and with my love for her grew 
my hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I were 
engaged. The next day I met those accursed “mag- 
pie” jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved 
by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to 
tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it 
already. 

“So I hear you’re engaged, Jack, dear.” Then, 
without a moment’s pause ;—“I’m sure it’s all a 
mistake—a hideous mistake. We shall be as good 
friends some day, Jack, as we ever were.” 

My answer might have made even a man wince. 
It cut the dying woman before me like the blow of 
a whip. ‘Please forgive me, Jack; I didn’t mean 
to make you angry; but it’s true, it’s true!” 

And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I 
turned away and left her to finish her journey in 
peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that I 
had been an utterably mean hound. I looked back, 
and saw that she had turned her ’rickshaw with the 
idea, I suppose, of overtaking me. 

The scene and its surroundings were photographed 
onmy memory. The rain-swept sky (we were at the 
end of the wet weather), the sodden, dingy pines, 
the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs 
formed a gloomy background against which the 
black and white liveries of the ghampanies, the 
yellow-paneled ‘rickshaw: and Mrs. Wessington’s 
down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She 


ho 08 om Gilt cna nels ts oleae | 
rune, an win Chee tewet ‘ 

owl ek ph A aN We RAR Soa aod D ae cE 
| ian pik MS: sph ai omg, 1 

orn Reet p aeons beat T yah trem 
areca ike nd tal, Yo caed oat Ga 
hedtyola pty jo Cameos i 


yi a “ (mehy ues x HERBS HOT 
in sh wite oi --| oa y deeue 
» wa od Usde wt .solahebe geen 
. “snow taeo a. Ga aoa, tab “ ae) 
POLIT ¥ BM 2 UT OAR even idgint oy 
io wold od? oft) ein ototed mame, 
ithe hitb [ :aloal om. evrnian: 2 
” ford ot ond aiid oe ee 

T  whietala 902 » GD ot ae olgetana WF 
ig tok sald od wil Hel sept if 
fie) OW) 4D Geto 2 10? qyimo andy 
Rint 2a dani A | emia € yet ees 
iy ai watliasty® vad bedsiid bad aided 
| * ont ga pkabarto Tae 
hake TAKAO Sey Pa araaly UREA BED dA, 
wii Aa eww ey ) (wasgowe podcast 
Aes. Wyilh shia aid Conieen 
witilty 2 a OO HA enn nich ay 
oc}. iuaw Ratstartee browiguoad 
att, wee GHAI, edi i cormavra 
mW siunl ¥ mca WT wall Diva seo 
oda ve te Booa hood 


‘hl i Ce Oh oy Ly tet 
& ie a 
z + 


- tous both. 


and fears; our long rides together; my trembli 


THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW. 7 


ually “making friends.” I might have seen, had I 
cared to look, that that hope only was keeping her 
alive. She grew more wan and thin month by 
month. You will agree with me, at least, that such 
conduct would have driven any one to despair. It 
was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I main- 
tain that she was much to blame. And again, some- 
times, in the black, fever-stricken night-watches, I 
have begnn to think that I might have been a little 
kinder to her. But that really 7s a “delusion.” I 
could not have continued pretending to love her 
when I didn’t; could 1? It would have been unfair 


Last year we met again—on the same terms as be- 
fore. The same weary appeals, and the same curt 
answers from my lips. At least I would make her . 
see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her at- 
tempts at resuming the old relationship. As the 
season wore on, we fell apart—that is to say, she 
found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and 
more absorbing interests to attend to. When J 
think it over quietly in my sick-room, the season 0: 
1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and 
shade were fantastically intermingled—my court 
ship of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubt: 


avowal of attachment; her reply; and now 
again a vision of a white face flitting by in the ’ 
shaw with the black and white liveries I 
watched for so earnestly ; the wave of Mr 
sington’s gloved hand; and, when-she met me 


} 


8 THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 


which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of 
her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering ; honestly, 
heartily loved her, and with my love for her grew 
my hatred for Agnes. In August_Kitty and I were 
engaged. The next day I met those accursed “mag- 
pie” jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved - 
by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to 
tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it 
already. 

“So I hear you're engaged, Jack, dear.” Then, 
without a moment’s pause ;—“I’m sure it’s all a 
mistake—a hideous mistake. We shall be as good 
friends some day, Jack, as we ever were.” 

My answer might have made even a man wince. 
It cut the dying woman before me like the blow of 
‘a whip. ‘Please forgive me, Jack; I didn’t mean 
to make you angry; but it’s true, it’s true!” 

And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I 
turned away and left her to finish her journey in 
peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, thatI — 
ad been an utterably mean hound. I looked back, — 
ind saw that she had turned her ’rickshaw with the 
dea, [ suppose, of overtaking me. — : 

The scene and its surroundings were photographed 
mmy memory. The rain-swept sky (we were at the. 
‘of the wet weather), the sodden, dingy pines, 
muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs _ 
ed a gloomy background against which the 


r-paneled ’rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington’s 
bowed golden head stood out clearly. She 


\ 
\ 


; and white liveries of the jhampantes, the — 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 9 


_ was holding her handkerehief in her left hand and 
was leaning back exhausted against the ’rickshaw 
cushions. I turned my horseup a by-path near the 
Sanjowlie Reservoir and literally ran away. Once 
I fancied I heard a faint call of “ Jack!” This may 
have been imagination. I never stopped to verify- 
it. Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horse- 
back; and, in the delight of a long ride with her, 
forgot all about the interview. 

A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the in- 

expressible burden of her existence was removed 
from my life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy. 
Before three months were over [ had forgotten all 
about her, except that at times the discovery of 
some of her old letters reminded me unpleasantly of 
our bygone relationship. By January I had disin- 
terred what was left of our correspondence from 
among my scattered belongings and had burnt it. 
At the beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was 
at Simla—semi-deserted Simla—once more, and was 
deep in lover’s talks and walks with Kitty. It was 
decided that we should be married at the end of 
June. You will understand, therefore, that, loving 
Kitty as I did, I am not saying too much when I 
_ pronounce myself to have been, at that time, the 
happiest man in India. 

Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I 
noticed their flight. Then, aroused to the sense of 
what was proper among mortals circumstanced as 
we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement 
ring was the outward and visible sign of her dignity 


THE PHANTOM ‘RICKSHAW. — 


as an engaged girl; and that she must. fortinwith. a 
come to Hamilton’s to be measured for one. Up to . : 
that moment, I give you my word, we had com- 
pletely for iotion so trivial amatter. ToHamilton’s — = 
we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885. 
Remember that—whatever my doctor may say to — 
the contrary—I was then in perfect health sonore =e ee 
a well-balanced mind and an absolutely tranquil — 
spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton’s shop fo 
gether, and there, regardless of the order of affairs, 
I measured Kitty for the ring in the presence of the 
amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with 
two diamonds. We then rode out down the slope Q 
that leads to the Combermere Bridge and eS 
SNOOP. = 

While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way 
over the loose shale, and Kitty was laughing and — 
chattering at my side—while all Simla, that is o” 
say as much of it as had then come from the eae 
was grouped round the Reading-room and Peliti’ 
veranda,—I was aware that some one , apparently 
a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian 
name. It struck me that I had heard the voice 
before, but when and where I could not at once 
determine. In the short space it took to cover the 
road between the path from Hamilton’s shop and. 
the first plank of the Combermere Bridge I had 
thought over half a dozen people who might have 
: ported such a solecism, and had eventually 
decided that it must have ee some singing in my 
ears, Immediately opposite Pelee S 2 nee aye 


cee ia ee 


THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW. id 


was arrested by the sight of four jhampanies in 
“magpie ” livery, pulling a yellow-paneled, cheap, 
bazar “rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew 
back to the previous season and Mrs. Wessington 
with a sense of irritation and disgust. Was it not 
enough that the woman was dead and done with, 
without her black and white servitors reappearing 


ae to spoil the day’s happiness? Whoever employed 


them now | thought I would call upon, and ask as 
a personal favor to change her jhampanies’ livery. 
I would hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buy 
their coats from off their backs. It is impossible to 
say here what a flood of undesirable memories their 
presence evoked. 

“Kitty,” I cried, “there are poor Mrs. Wes- 
sington’s ghampanies turned up again! I wonder 
who has them now ?” 

Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last 
season, and had always been interested in the sickly 
woman. 

“What? Where?” sheasked. “Ican’tsee them 


anywhere.” 


Even as she spoke, her horse, swerving from a 
laden mule, threw himself directly in front of the 
advancing ’rickshaw. I had scarcely time to utter 
a word of warning, when, to my unutterable horror, 
horse and rider passed through men and carriage as 


if they had been thin air. 


“What's the matter?” cried Kitty; “what made 
you call out so foolishly, Jack? If I am engaged I 


don’t want all creation to know about it. There 


12 THE PHANTOM. RICKSHAW. 


was lots of space between the mule andthe veranda; — 
and, if you think I can’t ride There |, 2. 3 

Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little 
head in the air, at a hand-gallop in the direction of 
the Band-stand; fully expecting, as she herself 
afterwards told me, that I should follow her. What 
was the matter? Nothing indeed. Either that I — 
was mad or drunk, or that Simla was haunted with 
devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned 
round. The ’rickshaw had turned too, and now 
stood immediately facing me, near the left railing 
of the Combermere Bridge. 

“ Jack! Jack, darling!” (There was no mistake © 
about the words this time: they rang through my 
brain as if they had been shouted in my ear.) “It’s 
some hideous mistake, ’m sure. Please forgive me, 
Jack, and let’s be Se again,” 

The ’rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as. 
I hope and pray daily for the deat I dread by — 
night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief in 
hand, and golden head anes on ee breast. 

How long 1 stared motionless I do not know. 
Finally, I was aroused by my syce taking the 
Waler’s bridle and asking whether I was ill. From 


the horrible to the commonplace is but a step. I ee 
tnmbled off my horse and dashed, half fainting, into 


Peliti’s for a glass of cherry-brandy. There two or 
three couples were gathered round the coffee-tables 
discussing the gossip of the day. Their trivialities 
were more comforting to me just then than the con- 


solations of religion could have been. I plunged 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 13 


into the midst of the conversation at once; chatted, 
laughed, and jested with a face (when I caught a 
glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and drawn as that 
of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condi- 
tion; and, evidently setting it down to the results 
of over-many pegs, charitably endeavored to draw 
me apart from the rest of the loungers. But I re 
' fused to be led away. I wanted the company of 
my kind—as a child rushes into the midst of the 
dinner-party after a fright inthedark. Imust have 
talked for about ten minutes or so, though it seemed 
an eternity to me, when I heard Kitty’s clear voice 
outside inquiring for me. In another minute she 
had entered the shop, prepared to roundly upbraid 
me for failing so signally in my duties. Something 
in my face stopped her. 

“Why, Jack,” she cried, “what have you been 
doing? What fas happened? Are you ill?” 
Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun 
had been a little too much for me. It was close 
upon five o’clock of a cloudy April afternoon, and 
the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my mis- 
take as soon as the words were out of my mouth: 
attempted to recover it; blundered hopelessly and 
followed Kitty in a regal rage, out of doors, amid 
the smiles of my acquaintances. I made some ex- 
cuse (I have forgotten what) on the score of my feel- 
ing faint; and cantered away to my hotel, leaving 
Kitty to finish the ride by herself. 

In my room I[ sat down and tried calmly to rea- 
son out the matter. Here was I, Theobald Jack _ 


14 


THE PHANTOM "RICKSHAW. ee 
Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in ihe year 


of grace 1885, presumably sane, certainly healthy, — 


driven in tener from my sweetheart’s side by the — 
apparition of a woman who had been dead and 
buried eight months ago. These were facts that I 
could not blink. Nothing was further from my 


thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington a 


hen Kitty and I left Hamilton’s shop. N othing | 


was more utterly commonplace than the stretch of 


wall opposite Peliti’s. It was broad daylight, The 
road was full of people; and yet here, look you, in 


defiance of every law of probability, in direct out- 


rage of Nature’s ordinance, there had pe to 
me a face from the grave. 
Kitty’s Arab had gone through the ’rickshaw : 


that my first hope that some woman eee oe 


like Mrs. Wessington had hired the carriage and — 


the coolies with their old livery was lost. Again 


and again I went round this tread-mill of thought ; 


and again and again gave up baffled and in despair. _ 


The voice was as inexplicable as the apparition. I 
had originally some wild notion of confiding it alle; 


to Kitty; of begging her to marry me at once; and 


in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the — 
rickshaw. “ After all, I argued, “the presence of 
the ’rickshaw is in itself enough to prove the ex- 
istence of a spectral illusion. One may see ghosts _ 
of men and women, but surely never of coolies and 
carriages. The ae thing is absurd. Bs the = 
ghost of a hillman !” 

N ext morning I sent a penitent note io Kitty, . 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 15 


imploring her to overlook my strange conduct of 


_ the previous afternoon. My Divinity was still very 


wroth, and a personal apology was necessary. I 
explained, with a fluency born of night-long ponder- 
ing over a falsehood, that I had been attacked with 
a sudden nae of the heart—the result of in- 
digestion. This eminently practical solution had its 
~ effect ; and Kitty and I rode out that afternoon with 
the shadow of my first lie dividing us. 

Nothing would please her save a canter round 
Jakko. With my nerves still unstrung from the 
previous night I feebly protested against the notion, 
suggesting Observatory Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaug- 
unge road—anything rather than the Jakko round. 
Kitty was angry and alittle hurt: so I yielded from 
fear of provoking further misunderstanding, and we 
set out together towards Chota Simla. We walked 
a greater part of the way, and, according to our 
custom, cantered from a mile or so below the Con- 
vent to the stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie 
Reservoir. The wretched horses appeared to fly, 
and my heart beat quicker and quicker as we neared 
the crest of the ascent. My mind had been full of 


_ Mrs. Wessington all the afternoon; and every inch 


of the Jakko road bore witness to our old-time walks 
and talks. The bowlders were full of it; the pines 
sang it aloud overhead ; the rain-fed tor ie cigoled 
and chuckled unseen Beek the shameful story ; and 
the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity aloud. 

As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level 
men call the Ladies’ Mile the Horror was awaiting 


16 THE PHANTOM eiOEeE Ge a = | 


me. No. other ’rickshaw was in sight—only the 


four black and white jhampanies, the yellow-paneled 


carriage, and the golden head of the woman within 
—all apparently just as [ had left them eight months 
and one fortnight ago! For an instant I fancied 
that Kitty must see what I saw—we were so mar- 
velously sympathetic in all things. Her next words 
undeceived me-—“ Not a soul in sight! Come along, 
Jack, and [ll race you to the Reservoir buildings ! ” 
Her wiry little Arab was off like a bird, my Waler 
following close behind, and in this Srtiee we dashed 
under the cliffs. Halfa minute brought us within — 
fifty yards of the ’rickshaw. I pulled my Waler 
and fell back a little. The ’rickshaw was directly 
in the middle of the road; and once more the Arab 
passed through it, my horse ce “ Jack ! 
Jack dear! Please forgive me,” rang with a wail 


in my ears, and, after an ftom: :-—“ It’s all : a@ mis- 


take, a iden see ee 
I poured my horse like a man possessed. When 
I turned my head at the Reservoir works, the black 


and white liveries were still welling. = te = 
waiting—under the gray hillside, and the wind — 


brought me a mocking echo of the words I had just 
heard. Kitty bantered mea good deal on my silence 
throughout the remainder of the ride. I had been 
talking up till then wildly and at random. To save 
my life I could not speak afterwards naturally, and 
from Sanjowlie to the Church ey held my 
tongue. 


I was to dine with the Mannerings that oe os 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 17 


and had barely time to canter home to dress. On 
the road to Elysium Hill I overheard two men talk- 
ing together in the dusk—“ It’s a curious thing,” 
said one, “how completely all trace of it disap- 
peared. You know my wife was insanely fond of 
the woman (never could see anything in her my- 
self), and wanted me to pick up her old ’rickshaw 
and coolies if they were to be got for love or money. 
Morbid sort of fancy I call it; but Pve got to do 
what Memsahib tells me. Would you believe that 
the man she hired it from tells me that all four of 
the men—they were brothers—died of cholera on 
the way to Hardwar, poor devils; and the ’rickshaw 
has been broken up by the man himself. *Told me 
he never used a dead Memsahib’s rickshaw. ’Spoilt 
his luck. Queer notion, wasn’t it? Fancy poor 
little Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one’s luck ex- 
cept herown!” I laughed aloud at this point ; and 
my laugh jarred onme as [uttered it. So there 
were ghosts of ’rickshaws after all, and ghostly em- 
ployments in the other world! How much did 
Mrs. Wessington give her men? What were their 
hours? Where did they go? 

And for visible answer to my last question I saw 
the infernal Thing blocking my path in the twilight. 
The dead travel fast, and by short cuts unknown to 
ordinary coolies. I laughed aloud a second time and 
checked my laughter suddenly, for I was afraid I 
was going mad. Mad to a certain extent I must 
have been, for I recollect that I reined in my horse 


at the head of the ’rickshaw, and politely wished 


18" THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. __ 


Mrs. Wessington “ Good-evening.” Her answer was ‘ 
one I knew only too well. I listened to the end; 
and replied that I had heard it all before, but should 


be delighted if she had anything further to say. 
Some malignant devil stronger than I must have 


entered into me that evening, for I have a dim rec. 


ollection of talking the commonplaces _ of the day 
for five minutes to the Thing in front of me. 

“ Mad asa hatter, poor devil—or drunk. Ae, try 
and get him to come home.” 


Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington’s os ee 
The two men had overheard me speaking to the 


empty air, and had returned to look afterme. They 
were very kind and considerate, and from their 
words. evidently gathered that I was extremely 
drunk. I thanked them confusedly and cantered 


away to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at the 


Mannerings’ ten minutes late. I pleaded the dark- 
ness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by 
Kitty for my unlover-like tardiness; and sat down. 
The conversation had already beuae general ; 
and under cover of it, I was addressing some tender: 
small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware that | 
at the further end of the table a short red-whiskered 


man was describing, with much broidery, his en So 


counter with a mad unknown that evening. 
A few sentences convinced me that he was repeat- 


ing the incident of haifan hour ago. In themiddle — 


of the story he looked round for applause, as profes-_ as 


sional story-tellers do, caught myeye and straightway - 


collapsed. There was a moment’s awkward silence, — - 


“s 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 19 


and the red-whiskered man muttered something to 
the effect that he had “ forgotten the rest,” thereby 
sacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller which 
he had built up for six seasons past. I blessed him 
from the bottom of my heart, and—went on with 
my fish. 

In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end ; 
and with genuine regret I tore myself away from 
Kitty—as certain as I was of my own existence that 
it would be waiting for me outside the door. The 
_red-whiskered man,-who had been introduced to me 
as Dr. Heatherlegh of Simla, volunteered to bear 
-me company as far as our roads lay together. I ac- 
cepted his offer with gratitude. 

My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readi- 
ness in the Mall, and, in what seemed devilish 
mockery of our ways, with a lighted head-lamp. The 
red-whiskered man went to the point at once, in a 
manner that showed he had been thinking over it all 
dinner time. 

“{f say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter 
with you this evening on the Elysium road?” The 
suddenness of the question wrenched an answer from 
me before I was aware. 

“That!” said I, pointing to It. 7 

“ That may be either D. T. or Eyes for aught I 
know. Now you don’t liquor. I saw as much at 
dinner, so it can’t be D. 7. There’s nothing what- 
ever where you're pointing, though you're sweat- 
ing and trembling with fright like a scared pony. 
Therefore, I conclude that it’s Eyes. And I ought 


et tr ly tn tis al 


20 THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 


“ 


to understand all about them. Come along home — 
with me. I’m on the Blessington lower road.” 

To my intense delight the rickshaw, instead of 
waiting for us, kept about twenty yards ahead—and 


‘this, too, whether we walked, trotted, or cantered. 


In the course of that long night ride I had told my ~ 
companion almost as much as I have told you — 
here. 

“Well, you’ve spoilt one of the best tales Pve 
ever laid tongue to,” said he, “but Dll forgive you 
for the sake of what you’ve gone through. Now 
come home and do what I tell you; and when I’ve 
cured you, young man, let this bea lesson to you to 
steer clear of women and indigestible food till the 
day of your death.” 

The ’rickshaw kept steady in front; and my red- 
whiskered friend seemed to derive i pleasure 
from my account of its exact whereabouts.’ 

“Hyes, Pansay—all Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. 
And the greatest of these three is Stémmaeh, You’ve 
too much conceited Brain, too little Stomach, and 
thoroughly unhealthy Eyes. Get your Stomach 
straight and the rest follows. And all that’s French 
for a liver pill. Jl take sole medical charge of you 
from’ this hour! for you're too interesting a oe . 
nomenon to be passed over.” 

By this time we were deep in the shadow of the 
Blessington lower road and the ’rickshaw came to 
a dead stop under a pine-clad, overhanging shale 
cliff. Instinctively I halted too, giving my reason. 
Heatherlegh rapped out an oath. 


THE PHANTOM ‘RICKSHAW. ZY 


“ Now, if you think [’m going to spend a cold 
night on the hillside for the sake of a Stomach-ewm- 
Brain-cwm-Eye illusion. .. Lord, ha’ mercy! What’s 
that ?” 

There was a muffled report, a blinding smother 
of dust just in front of us, a crack, the noise of rent 
boughs, and about ten yards of the cliff-side—pines, 
undergrowth, and all—slid down into the road below, 
completely blocking it up. The uprooted trees 
swayed and tottered for a moment like drunken 
giants in the gloom, and then fell prone among their 
fellows with a thunderous crash. Our two horses 
stood motionless and sweating with fear. As soon 
as the rattle of falling earth and stone had subsided, 
my companion muttered :—“ Man, if we’d gone for- 
ward we should have been ten feet deep in our graves 
by now. ‘There are more things in heaven and 
earth’ . . . Come home, Pansay, and thank God. 
I want a peg badly.” 

We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and 
I arrived at Dr. Heatherlegh’s house shortly after 
midnight. : 

His attempts towards my cure commenced almost 
immediately, and for a week I never left his side. 
Many a time in the course of that week did I bless 
the good-fortune which had thrown me in contact 
with Simla’s best and kindest doctor. Day by day 
my spirits grew lighter and more equable. Day by 
day, too, I became more and more inclined to fall 
in with Heatherlegh’s “spectral illusion” theory, 
implicating eyes, brain, and stomach. I1 wrote to 


22 THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW.  __ 


Kitty, telling her that a slight sprain caused bya | 
fall from my horse kept me indoors for a few days; _ 


and that I should be recovered before she had time _ 


to regret my absence. 
Heatherlegh’s treatment was simple toa debe. 


It consisted af liver pills, cold-water baths, and strong — 


exercise, taken in the dusk or at early dawn—for, 
as he sagely observed :—“ A man with a sprained 


ankle doesn’t walk a dozen miles a day, and your 


eae might be wondering if she saw 
you.” 


At the end of the week, after much examination 


of pupil and pulse, and strict injunctions as to diet 
and pedestrianism, Heatherlegh dismissed me as 
brusquely as he had taken charge of me. Here is 
his parting benediction :-—“ Man, I certify to your 
mental cure, and that’s as much as to say ve cured 


most of your bodily ailments. Now, get your traps 


out of this as soon as you can; and pe off to make 
love to Miss Kitty.” 


I was endeavoring to express my thanks for his. 


kindness. He cut me short. 


“Don’t think I did this because I like you. I — 
gather that you’ve behaved like a blackguard all. 
through. But, all the same, you’re a phenomenon, ~ 
and as queer a phenomenon as you area blackguard.~ 
No!”—checking me a second time—“not a rupee, — 
please. Go out and see if you can find the eyes- _ 
brain-and-stomach business again. Tl give you a 


lakh for each time you see it.” 


Half an hour later I was in the Mannerings 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 23 


_ drawing-room with Kitty—drunk with the intoxica- 
tion of present happiness and the foreknowledge that 
I should never more be troubled with Its hideous 
presence. Strong in the sense of my new-found 
security, I proposed a ride at once; and, by prefer- 
ence, a canter round Jakko. 

Never had I felt so well, so overladen with vital- 
ity and mere animal spirits, as I did on the after- 
noon of the 30th of April. Kitty was delighted at 
_ the change in my appearance, and complimented me 
on it in her delightfully frank and outspoken manner. 
We left the Mannerings’ house together, laughing 
and talking, and cantered along the Chota Simla 
road as of old. 

I was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reservoir 
and there make my assurance doubly sure. The 
horses did their best, but seemed all too slow to my 
impatient mind. Kitty was astonished at my bois- 
terousness. “ Why, Jack!” she cried at last, “you 
are behaving likea child. Whatare you doing?” 
We were just below the Convent, and from sheer 
wantonness I was making my Waler plunge and 
curvet across the road as I tickled it with the loop 
of my riding-whip. 
 “Toing?” I answered; “nothing, dear. That’s 
just it. If you’d been doing nothing for a week 
except lie up, you’d be as riotous as I. 


‘6 ¢Singing and murmuring in your feastful mirth, 
Joying to feel yourself alive ; 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth 
Lord of the senses five.’” 


24 THE PHANTOM "RICKSHAW. 


My quotation was hardly out of my lips before 
we had rounded the corner above the Convent ; and’ 
a, few yards further on could see across to Sanjowlie. 
In the center of the level road stood the black and 
white liveries, the yellow-paneled ’rickshaw, and 
Mrs. Keith-Wessington. I pulled up, looked, rubbed 
my eyes, and, I believe, must have said something. 
The next thing I knew ‘was that I was lying face 
downward on the road, with Kitty kneeling above 
me in tears. 

“Has It gone, child?” I gasped. Kitty only | 
wept more bitterly. 

“Has what gone, Jack, dear? what does it all 
mean? There must be a mistake somewhere, Jack. 
A hideous mistake.” Her last words brought me 
to my feet—mad— raving for the time being. 

“Yes, there 2s a mistake somewhere,” I repeated, 
“‘a, hideous mistake. Come and look at It.” 

I have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by 
the wrist along the road up to where It stood, and 
implored her for pity’s sake to speak to It; to tell 
It that we were betrothed ; that neither Death nor 
Hell could break the tie between us: and Kitty 
only knows how-much more to the same effect. 
Now and again I appealed passionately te the 
Terror in the ’rickshaw to bear witness to all I had 
said, and to release me from a torture that was kill- 
ing me. As I talked I suppose I must have told 
Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. Wessington, for 
I saw her listen intently with white face and blazing 
eyes. 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 95 


“¢ Thank you, Mr. Pansay,” she said, “ that’s guete 
enough. Syce ghora lao.” 

The syces, impassive as Orientals always are, had 
come up with the recaptured horses ; and as Kitty 
sprang into her saddle I caught hold of the bridle, en- 
treating her to hear me out and forgive. My answer 
was the cut of her riding-whip across my face 
from mouth to eye, and a word or two of farewell 
that even now I cannot write down. So I judged, and 
judged rightly, that Kitty knew all; and I staggered 

. back to the side of the rickshaw. My face was cut 
and bleeding, and the blow of the riding-whip had 
_ raised a livid blue wheal onit. I had no self-respect. 
Just then, Heatherlegh, who must have been fol- 
lowing Kitty and me at a distance, cantered up. 

“Doctor,” I said, pointing to my face, “here’s 
Miss Mannering’s signature to my order of dismissal 
and . . . Ill thank you for that lakh as soon 
as convenient.” 

Heatherlegh’s face, even in my abject misery, 
moved me to laughter. 

“Tl stake my professional reputation ”—he be- 


an. 
“Don’t be a fool,” I whispered. “I’ve lost my 


life’s happiness and you’d better take me home.” 


As I spoke the ’rickshaw was gone. Then I lost 
all knowledge of what was passing. The crest of 
Jakko seemed to heave and roll like the crest of a 
cloud and fall in upon me. 

Seven days later (on the 7th of May, that is to 
say) I was aware that I was lying in Heatherlegh’s 


26 THE PHANTOM "RICKSHAW. __ 


room as weak as a little child: Heatherlegh was 


watching me intently from behind the papers on his 
writing-table. His first words were not encourag- 
ing; but I was too far spent to be much moved oy 
them. — 

“Here’s Miss Kitty has sent back your letters, 
You corresponded a good deal, you young people. 
Here’s a packet that looks like a ring, and a cheerful 
sort of a note from Mannering Papa, which Pve 
taken the liberty of reading and burning. The old 
gentleman’s not pleased with you.” 7 

“ And Kitty?” I asked dully. 

“ Rather more drawn than her father, from what 
she says. By the same token you must have been 
letting out any number of queer reminiscences just 


before I met you. ’Says that a man who would 
have behaved to a woman as you did to Mrs. Wes- 


sington ought to kill himself out of sheer pity for 
his kind. She’s a hot-headed little virago, your 
mash. ’Will have it too that you were suffering 
from D. 7. when that row on the Jakko road turned 
up. aye she’ll die before she ever speaks to you 
again.” 

I groaned and turned over on the other side. _ 

“ Now you’ve got your choice, my friend. This 
engagement has to be broken off; and the Manner- 
ings ‘don’t want to be too a on you. Was it 
| broken through D. 7. or epileptic fits? Sorry I 


can’t offer you a better exchange unless you’d pre- 
fer hereditary insanity. Say the word and [ll tell 
em it’s fits, All Simla knows about that scene on 


j THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 27 


N the Ladies’ Mile. Come! T’ll give you five min- 
-/ates to think over it.” 

' During those five minutes I believe that I ex- 
plored thoroughly the lowest circles of the Inferno 
which it is permitted man to tread on earth. And 
at the same time I myself was watching myself fal- 
tering through the dark labyrinths of doubt, misery, 
and utter despair. I wondered, as Heatherlegh in 
his chair might have wondered, which dreadful al- 
ternative I should adopt. Presently I heard myself 
answering in a voice that I hardly recognized,— 

“ They’re confoundedly particular about morality 

in these parts. Give’em fits, Heatherlegh, and my 
love. Now let mesleep a bit longer.” 

Then my two selves joined, and it was only I (half- 
crazed, devil-driven I) that tossed in my bed, tracing 
step by step the history of the past month. 

“ But I am in Simla,” I kept repeating to myself. 
“T, Jack Pansay,am in Simla, and there are no 
ghosts here. It’s unreasonable of that woman to 
pretend there are. Why couldn’t Agnes have left 
me alone? Inever did her any harm. It might 
just as well have been me as Agnes, Only Id never 
have come back on purpose to kill her. Why can’t 
I be left alone—left alone and happy ?” 

It was high noon when I first awoke; and the sun 
was low in the sky before I Bene deat as the tor- 
tured criminal sleeps on his rack, too worn to feel 
further pain. 

Next day I could not leave my bed. Heatherlegh 
told me in the morning that he had received an 


ey 


25) THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 


‘ 3 
~~ 
aS ee ame 
Pees ag > hee 3 


answer from Mr. Mannering, and that, thanks to his 
(Heatherlegh’s) friendly offices, the story of my 
affliction had traveled through the length and. 
breadth of Simla, where I was on all sides much 
pitied. 

“And that’s rather more than you deserve, i he 
concluded pleasantly, “though the Lord vie 
you've been going through a pretty severe mill. 
Never ees we'll cure you yet, you perverse phe- 
nomenon.’ 

I declined firmly to be cured. ‘“ You've been much 
too good to me already, old man,” said 1; “but I 
don’t think I need trouble you further.” 

In my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh 
could do would lighten the burden that had been laid 
upon me. 

With that knowledge came also a sense of hope- 
less, impotent rebellion against the unreasonable- 
ness of it all. There were scores of men no better 
than I whose punishments had at least been reserved 
for another world; and I felt that it was bitterly, 
cruelly unfair that I alone should have been singled 
out for so hideous a fate. This mood would in time 
give place to another where it seemed that the 
rickshaw and I were the only realities in a world of 
shadows; that Kitty was a ghost; that Mannering, 
Heatherlegh, and all the other men and women I 
knew were all ghosts ; and the great, gray hills them- 
selves but vain shadows devised to tortureme. From 
mood to mood I tossed backwards and forwards for 
seven weary days; my body growing daily stronger 


THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW. 29, 


_ and stronger, until the bedroom looking-glass told me 
that I had returned to every-day life and was as other 
men once more. Curiously enough my face showed 
no signs of the struggle I had gone through. It was 
pale indeed, but as expressionless and commonplace 
asever. Ihad expected some permanent alteration 
—visible evidence of the disease that was eating me 
away. I found nothing. 

On the 15th of May I left Heatherlegh’s house at 
eleven o’clock in the morning; and the instinct of 
the bachelor drove me tothe Club. There I found 
that every man knew my story as told by Heather- 
legh, and was, in clumsy fashion, abnormally kind 
and attentive. Nevertheless I recognized that for 
the rest of my natural life I should be among but 
not of my fellows; and I envied very bitterly in- 
deed the laughing coolies on the Mall below. I 
lunched at the Club, and at four o’clock wandered 
aimlessly down the Mall in the vague hope of meet- 
ing Kitty. Close to the Band-stand the black and 
white liveries joined me; andI heard Mrs. Wessing- 
ton’s old appeal at my side. I had been expecting 
this ever singe I came out; and was only surprised 
at her delay. The phantom ’rickshaw and I went 
side by side along the Chota Simla road in silence. 
Close to the bazar, Kitty and a man on horseback 
overtook and passed us. For any sign she gave I 
might have been a dog in the road. She did not 
even pay me the compliment of quickening her pace ; 
though the rainy afternoon had served for an excuse. 

So Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly 


se 


30. THE PHANTOM leith so ek 


Light-o’-Love, crept round Jakko in conples. The 
road was streaming with water; the pines dripped 
like roof-pipes on the rocks Belén and the air was 
full of fine, driving rain. Two or three times I found 
myself saying to myself almost aloud:—“ Pm Jack 
Pansay on leave at Simla—at Semla ! Every-day, 
ordinary Simla. I mustn’t forget that—I mustn’t. 
forget that.” Then I would try to recollect some of 
the gossip I had heard at the Club: the prices of So- 
and-So’s horses—anything, in fact, that related to 
the work-a-day Anglo-Indian world I knew so well. 
I even repeated the multiplication-table rapidly to 
myself, to make quite sure that I was not taking 
leave of my senses. It gave me much comfort; and 
must have prevented my hearing Mrs. Wessington 
for a time. | : | 
Once more I wearily climbed the Convent slope 
and entered the level road. Here Kitty and the 
man started off ata canter, and I was leftalone with 
Mrs. Wessington. “ Agnes,” said I, “ will you put 
back your hood and tell me what it allmeans?” The 
hood dropped noiselessly, and I was face to face with 
my dead and buried mistress. She was wearing the 
dress in which I had last seen her alive; carried the 
same tiny handkerchief in her right hand ; and the 
same card-case in her left. (A woman eight months 
dead with a card-case!) -Lhad to pin myself down to 
the multiplication-table, and to set both hands on the 
stone parapet of the road, to assure myself that that 
at least was real. 3 
“ Aones,” I repeated, “for pity’s sake tell me 


THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW. 31 


what it allmeans.” Mrs. Wessington leant forward, 
with that odd quick turn of the head I used to know 
“so well, and spoke. 

- Tf my story had not already so madly overleaped 
‘the bounds of all human belief I should apologize to 
you now. As I know that no one—no, not even 
| Kitty, for whom it is written as some sort of justifi- 
cation of my conduct-—will believe me, I will go on. 
Mrs. Wessington spoke and I walked an ee from 
the Sanjowlie road to the turning below the Com- 
mander-in-Chief’s house as I might walk by the side 
of any living woman’s ’rickshaw, deep in conversa- 
tion. The second and most tormenting of my moods 
4 sickness had suddenly laid hold upon me, and like 
‘the Prince in Tennyson's poem, “I seemed to move 
‘amid a world of ghosts.” There had been a garden- 
‘party at the Commander-in-Chief’s, and we two 
joined the crowd of homeward-bound folk. As I 
saw them then it seemed that they were the shadows 
—impalpable fantastic shadows—that divided for 
Mrs. W essington’s rickshaw to passthrough. What 
we said during the course of that weird interview I 
cannot—indeed, I dare not—tell. Heatherlegh’s 
comment would have been a short laugh and a remark 
that Thad been “mashing a brain-eye-and-stomach 
chimera.” Itwasa ghastly and yet in some indefin- 
able way amarvelously dear experience. Could it be 
possible, I wondered, that I was in this life to woo 
a second time the woman I had killed by my own 
neglect and cruelty ¢ 


32 THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW.. 


I met Kitty on the homeward road—a shadow 
among shadows. 

If I were to describe all the incidents of the nexé 
fortnight in their order, my story would never come 
to an end; and your acne would be exhausted. 
Morning after morning and evening after evening 
the ghostly ’rickshaw and J used to wander through 
Simla together. | Wherever I went there the four 
black and white liveries followed me and bore me 
company to and from my hotel. At the Theater I 
found them amid the crowd of yelling jhampanies ; 
outside the Club veranda, after a long evening of 
whist ; at the Birthday Ball, waiting patiently for 
my rcappenence: and in broad daylight when I 
went calling. Save that it cast no shadow, the ’rick. 
shaw was in every respect as real to look upon as 
one of wood and iron. More than once, indeed, I 
have had to check myself from warning some hard: 
riding friend against cantering over it. More thar 
once I have walked down the Mall deep in conver- 
sation with Mrs. Wessington to the unspeakable 
amazement of the passers-by. | 

Before I had been out and about a week I learned. 
that the “fit” theory had been discarded in favor 
of insanity. However, I made no change in my 
mode of life. Icalled, rode, and dined out as freely 
as ever. I had a passion for the society of my kind 
which I had never felt before; I hungered to be 
among the realities of life ; and at the’same time I 
felt vaguely unhappy when a had been separated too 
long from my ghostly companion. It would be al- 


Pas Dt PS ee ge ONES Ae Tie A agi Ses & eee Ma te SW aka vg 
aig : - >t ae +" ADR ag Pos ; iB Vix if 
“Se Fe = "aoe ; 5 ; ore eS 


{ 
THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW. 33 


-naost impossible to describe my varying moods from 
‘he 15th of May up to to-day. 
_ The presence of the ’rickshaw filled me by turns 
: ‘with horror, blind fear, a dim sort of pleasure, and 
“utter despair. I dared not leave Simla; and I knew 
; “that my stay there was killing me. I knew, more- 
Over, that it was my destiny to die slowly anda 
little every day. My only anxiety was to get the 
penance over as quietly as might be. Alternately 
I hungered for a sight of Kitty and watched her out- 
rageous flirtations with my successor—to speak more 
accurately, my successors—with amused interest. 
She was as much out of my life as I was out of hers. 
By day I wandered with Mrs. Wessington almost con- 
tent.’ By night I implored Heaven to let me return 
to the world as I used to know it. Above all these 
varying moods lay the sensation of dull, numbing 
wonder that the Seen and the Unseen should mingle 
so strangely on this earth to hound one poor soul 
to its grave. 


August 27.—Heatherlegh has been indefatigable 
in his attendance on me; and only yesterday told 
me that I ought to send in an application for sick 
leave. An application to escape the company of a_ 
phantom! A request that the Government would 
graciously permit me to get rid of five ghosts and 
an airy rickshaw by going to England! Heather- 
legh’s proposition moved me almost to hysterical 
laughter. I told him that I should await the end 

3 


THE PHANTOM "RICKSHAW. : 


34 


quietly at es and I am sure that the he tS ‘not S 
far off. Boller me that I dread its advent more 
than any word can say ; and I torture myself nightly — 
with a thousand speculations as to the manner a ay 
my death. © . 

Shall I die in my bed decently and as an ‘aga : 
gentleman should die; or, in one last walk on the — 
- Mall, will my soul be ron? from me to take its 
_ place for ever and ever by the side of that ghastly 
phantasm? Shall I return to my old lost allegiance 
in the next world, or shall I meet Agnes, loan y 
her and bound £6 her side through all eternity ? 
Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives till ~ 
the end of Time? As the day of my death draws 
nearer, the intense horror that all living flesh feels 
pvarde escaped spirits from beyond the grave 
‘grows more and more powerful. It is an awful — 
thing to go down quick among the dead with 
scarcely one-half of your life completed. It is a — 
thousand times more awful to wait as I do in your 
midst, for I know not what unimaginable terror. 
Pity me, at least on the score of my “delusion,” for _ 
Iknow you will never believe what I have written ae 
here. Yet as surely as ever a man was done to 
death by the Powers of Darkness I am that man. 3 

In justice, too, pity her. For as surely asever 
woman was killed by man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. ; 
And the last portion of my punishment is even now 
upon me. 3 


THE STRANGE RIDE OF MOR- 
ROWBIE JUKES. 


Alive or dead—there is no other way.—Native Proverb. 


THERE 1s, as the conjurers say, no deception about 
this tale. Jukes by accident stumbled upon a village 
that is well known to exist, though he is the only 
Englishman who has been there. A somewhat 
similar institution used to flourish on the outskirts 
of Calcutta, and there is a story that if you go into 
the heart of Bikanir, which is in the heart of the 
Great Indian Desert, you shall come across not a 
village but a town where the Dead who did not die 
but may not live have established their headquarters. 
And, since it is perfectly true that in the same 
Desert is a wonderful city where all the rich money- 
lenders retreat after they have made their fortunes 
(fortunes so vast that the owners cannot trust even 
the strong hand of the Government to protect them, 
but take refuge in the waterless sands), and drive 
sumptuous O-spring barouches, and buy beautiful 
girls and decorate their palaces with gold and ivory 
and Minton tiles and mother-o’-pearl, I do not see 
why Jukes’s tale should not be true. He ee Civil 

. 5 


36 THE STRANGE RIDE. 


Engineer, with a head for plans and distances and 
things of that kind, and he certainly would not take 


the trouble to invent imaginary traps. He could ~ 


earn more by doing his legitimate work. He never 


varies the tale in the telling, and grows very hot 


and indignant when he thinks of the disrespectful 
treatment he received. He wrote this quite straight- 


forwardly at first, but he has since touched it up in 


places and introduced Moral Reflections, thus : 


In the beginning it all arose from a slight attack 
of fever. My work necessitated my being in camp 
for some months between Pakpattan and Mubarak- 
pur—a desolate sandy stretch of country as every 
one who has had the misfortune to go there may 
know. My coolies were neither more nor less ex- 
asperating than other gangs, and my work demanded 


sufficient attention to keep me from moping, had I — 


been inclined to so unmanly a weakness. 

On the 23d December, 1884, I felt a little fever- 
ish. There was a full moon at the time, and, in 
consequence, every dog near my tent was baying it. 
The brutes assembled in twos and threes and drove 
me frantic. A few days previously I had shot one 
loud-mouthed singer and suspended his carcass am 


terrorem about fifty yards from my tent-door. But 


his friends fell upon, fought for, and ultimately 


devoured the body: and, as-it seemed to me, sang é 
their hymns of thanksgiving afterwards with: re- | 


newed energy. 
The light-headedness which accompanies fever 


8 SSS 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 37 


acts differently on different men. My irritation 
gave way, after a short time, to a fixed determina- 
tion to slaughter one huge black and white beast 
who had been foremost in song and first in flight 
throughout the evening. Thanks to a shaking hand 
and a giddy head I had already missed him twice 
with both barrels of my shotgun, when it struck me 
that my best plan would be to ride him down in the 
open and finish him off with a hog-spear. This, of 


course, was merely the semi-delirious notion of a fever 


patient ; but I remember that it struck me at the 
time as being eminently practical and feasible. 

I therefore ordered my groom to saddle Pornic 
and bring him round quietly to the rear of my tent. 
When the pony was ready, I stood at his head pre- 
pared to mount and dash out as soon as the dog should 
again lift up his voice. Pornic, by the way, had not 
been out of his pickets fora couple of days; the 
night air was crisp and chilly; and I was armed 
with a specially long and sharp pair of persuaders 
with which I had been rousing a sluggish cob that 
afternoon. You will easily believe, then, that when 
he was let go he went quickly. In one moment, for 
the brute bolted as straight as a die, the tent was 
left far behind, and we were flying over the smooth 
sandy soil at racing speed. In another we had 


passed the wretched dog, and I had almost forgotten 


why it was that I had taken horse and hog-spear. 
The delirium of fever and the excitement of rapid 

motion through the air must have taken away the 

remnant of my senses, I have a faint recollection 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


of standing upright in my stirrups, and of brandish- 
ing my hog-spear at the great white Moon that 
looked down so calmly on my mad gallop; and of 
shouting challenges to the camel-thorn bushes as 
they whizzed past. Once or twice, I believe, I 
swayed forward on Pornic’s neck, sid literally hung 
on by my spurs—as the marks next mor ; 
showed. 
The wretched beast went forward Tike” a ne 
possessed, over what seemed to bea limitless expanse 
of moonlit sand. Next, I remember, the ground 
rose suddenly in front of us, and as we topped the 
ascent I saw the waters of the Sutlej shining like a 
silver bar below. Then Pornic blundered heavily 
on his nose, and we role together | down some un- 
seen slope. | oe 
I must have lost consciousness, for hee Ae 2 
covered I was lying on my ssc ich in ae heap of 
soft white sand, and the dawn was beginning to. 
break dimly over the edge of the slope down. which — 
-IThad fallen. As the ent grew stronger I saw that 
I was at the bottom of a horseshoe-shaped crater of 
sand, opening on one side directly on to the shoals of 
the Subic}. My fever had altogether left me, and, 
with the exception of a slight dizziness in the 1 ud. 
I felt no bad effects from the fall over night. 
Pornic, who was standing a few yards away, was 
naturally a good deal exhausted, but had not 1 A 
himself in the least. His saddle, a favorite polo” 
one, was much knocked about, and had been twisted 
under his belly. It took me some time | to ee him 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 39 


to rights, and in the meantime I had ample oppor- 


tunities of observing the spot into which I had so 
foolishly dropped. 

At the risk of being considered tedious, I must 
describe it at length ; inasmuch as an accurate men- 
tal picture of its peculiarities will be of material as- 
sistance in enabling the reader to understand what 
follows. 3 

Imagine then, as I have said before, a horse-shoe- 
shaped crater of sand with steeply graded sand walls 
about thirty-five feet high. (The slope, I fancy, 
must have been about 65°.) This crater enclosed a 
level piece of ground about fifty yards long by thirty 
at its broadest part, with a rude well in the center. 
Round the bottom of the crater, about three feet 
from the level of the ground proper, ran a series of 
eighty-three semicircular, ovoid, square, and multi- 
lateral holes, all about three feet at the mouth. 
Each hole on inspection showed that it was carefully 
shored internally with drift-wood and bamboos, and 
over the mouth a wooded drip-board projected, like 
the peak of a jockey’s cap for two feet. No sign 
of life was visible in these tunnels, but a most sick- 
ening stench pervaded the entire amphitheater—a 
stench fouler than any which my wanderings in In- 
dian villages have introduced me to. 

Having remounted Pornic, who was as anxious as 
I to get back to camp, I rode round the base of the 
horseshoe to find some place whence an exit would 
be practicable. The inhabitants, whoever they 
might be, had not thought fit to put in an appear 


40 THE STRANGE RIDE. 


ance, so I was left to my own devices. “My first es - 


tempt to “rush” Pornic up the steep sand- banks 


showed me that I had fallen into a trap exactly on 
the same model as that which the ant-lion sets for : 
its prey. At each step the shifting sand poured 
down from above in tons, and rattled on the drip- 
boards of the holes like small shot. A couple of — 
ineffectual charges sent us both rolling down. to the | 
bottom, half choked with the torrents of sand ; and © 
I was constrained to turn my attention to the river: : 
bank. coe 
Here everything seemed easy enough. ‘The sand 
hills ran down to the river edge, it is true, but there — 
were plenty of shoals and shallows across which I 
could gallop Pornic, and find my way back to terra 
Jjwma by turning sharply to the right or the left. — 
As I led Pornic over the sands I was startled by the — 
faint pop of a rifle across the river; and at thesame — 
- moment a bullet dropped with a Ae “whit” close 

_ to Pornic’s head. - 
_ There was no mistaking the nature of the ele 
—a regulation Martini- Hetry “picket.” About — 
five hundred yards away a country-boat was an- 
chored in midstream; and a jet of smoke drifting — 
away from its bows in the still morning air showed 
me whence the delicate attention had come. Was 
ever a respectable gentleman in such an impasse? — 
The treacherous sand slope allowed no escape from — 
a spot which I had visited most involuntarily, and a - 
promenade on the river frontage was the signal for. 
a bombardment from some insane native in a boat. | 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 41 


Tm afraid that I lost my temper very much in- 
deed. 

Another bullet reminded me that I had better 
save my breath to cool my porridge ; and I retreated 
hastily up the sands and back to the horseshoe, 
where I saw that the noise of the rifle had drawn 
sixty-five human beings from the badger-holes which 
[ had up till that point supposed to be untenanted. 
I found myself in the midst of a crowd of spectators 
—about forty men, twenty women, and one child 
who could not have been more than five years old. 
They were all scantily clothed in that salmon-colored 
cloth which one associates with Hindu mendicants, 
and, at first sight, gave me the impression of a band 
of loathsome fakirs. The filth and repulsiveness of 
the assembly were beyond all description, and I 
shuddered to think what their life in the badger- 
holes must be. 

Even in these days, when local self-government 
has destroyed the greater part of a native’s respect 
for a Sahib, I have been accustomed toa certain 


amount of civility from my inferiors, and on ap- 


proaching the crowd naturally expected that there 
would be some recognition of my presence. Asa 
matter of fact there was; but it was by no means 
what I had look for. 

The ragged crew actually laughed at me-—such 
laughter I hope I may never hear again. They 
cackled, yelled, whistled, and howled as I walked 
into their midst; some of them literally throwing 
themselves down on the ground in convulsions of 


AD. THE STRANGE RIDE. 


unholy mirth. Inamoment I had let go Pornic’s 
head, and, irritated beyond expression at the morn- 


ing’s adventure, commenced cuffing those nearest 


to me with all the force I could. The wretches — 
dropped under my blows like nine-pins, and the 
laughter gave place to wails for mercy ; while those 
yet untouched clasped me round the knees, implor- 
ing me in all sorts of uncouth tongues to spare them. 
In the tumult, and just when I was feeling very 
much ashamed of myself for having thus easily 
given away to my temper, a thin, high voice mur-_ 
mured in English from behind my shoulder :— 
“Sahib! Sahib! Do you not know me? Sahib, 
it is Gunga Dass, the telegraph-master.” | 
I spun round quickly and faced the speaker. 


Gunga Dass (I have, of course, no hesitation in — 


mentioning the man’s real name) I had known four 
years before as a Deccanee Brahmin lent by the 
Punjab Government to one of the Khalsia States. 
He was in charge of a branch telegraph-office there, 
and when I had Jast met him was a jovial, full- 
stomached, portly Government servant with a mar- 
velous capacity for making bad puns in English—— 
a peculiarity which made me remember him long 
after I had forgotten his services to me in his official 
capacity. It is seldom that a Hindu makes Eng- 
lish puns. 

Now, however, the man was changed beyond all 2 
recognition. Cicte ae, stomach, slate-colored 
continuations, and unctuous speech were all gone. 
I looked at a withered skeleton, turbanless andl 


; 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 43 


almost naked, with long matted hair and deep-set 
codfish-eyes. But for a crescent-shaped scar on the 
left cheek—the result of an accident for which I 
was responsible—I should never have known him. 
But it was indubitably Gunga Dass, and—for this 
I was thankful—an English-speaking native who 
might at least tell me the meaning of all that I had 
gone through that day. 

The crowd retreated to some distance as I turned 
towards the miserable figure, and ordered him to 
show me some method of escaping from the crater. 
He held a freshly plucked crow in his hand, and in 
reply to my question climbed slowly on a platform 
of sand which ran in front of the holes, and com- 
menced lighting a fire therein silence. Dried bents, 
sand-poppies, and driftwood burn quickly; and I 
derived much consolation from the fact that he lit 
them with an ordinary sulphur-match. When they 
were in a bright glow, and the crow was neatly 
spitted in front thereof, Gunga Dass began without 
a word of preamble :— 

“There are only two kinds of men, Sar. The 
alive and the dead. When you are dead you are 
dead, but when you are alive you live.” (Here the 
erow demanded his attention for an instant as it 
twirled before the fire in danger of being burnt to 
a cinder.) “If you die at home and do not die 
when you come to the ghat to be burnt you come 
here.” 

The nature of the reeking village was made plain 
now, and all that I had known or read of the gro- 


44 THE STRANGE RIDE. 


tesque and the horrible paled before the fact just — 
communicated by the ex-Brahmin, Sixteen years 
ago, when I first landed in Bombay, I had been 
told by a wandering Armenian of the existence, 
somewhere in India, of a place to which such — 
Hindus as had the misfortune to recover from trance — 
or catalepsy were conveyed and kept, and I rec- — 
ollect laughing heartily at what I was then pleased 
to consider a traveler’s tale. Sitting at the bottom — 
of the sand-trap, the memory of Watson’s Hotel, © 
with its swinging punkahs, white-robed attendants, 
and the sallow-faced Armenian, rose up in my mind — 
as vividly as a photograph, and I burst into a loud 
fit of laughter. The contrast was too absurd ! s 
Gunga Dass, as he bent over the unclean bird, © 
watched me oubiosly: Hindus seldom laugh, and : 
his surroundings were not such as to move Gunga — 
Dass to any undue excess of hilarity. He ven cead e 
the crow solemnly from the wooden spit and as — 
solemnly devoured it. Then he continued his story, 
which I give in his own words :— | 
“ In epidemics of the cholera you are carried to 2 
be burnt almost before you are dead. When you — 
come to the riverside the cold air, perhaps, makes 
you alive, and then, if you are only little alive, mud — 
is put on your nose and mouth and you die conclu. 
sively. If you are rather more alive, more mud is 
put; but if you are too lively they let you go and — 
take you away. I was too lively, and made protes- _ 
tation with anger against the indignities that they 
endeavored to press upon me. In those days I was — 


i OR PO te tte + 
4 — S 
ast rng 
‘ 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 45 


Brahmin and proud man. Now Iam dead man and 
_eat”—here he eyed the well-gnawed breast bone 
with the first sign of emotion that I had seen in him 
since we met—‘ crows, and other things. They 
took me from my sheets when they saw that I was 
too lively and gave me medicines for one week, and 
I survived successfully. Then they sent me by rail 
from my placeto Okara Station, with a man to take 
care of me; and at Okara Station we met two other 
men, and they conducted we three on camels, in the 
night, from Okara Station to this place, and they 
propelled me from the top to the bottom, and the 
other two succeeded, and I have been here ever since 
two and ahalf years. Once I was Brahmin and 
proud man, and now [I eat crows.” 
_“ There is no way of getting out?” 

None of what kind at all. When I first came 
I made experiments frequently and all the others 
also, but we have always succumbed to the sand 
which is precipitated upon our heads.” 

“But surely,’ I broke in at this point, “ the river- 
front is open, and it is worth while dodging the 
bullets; whileat night ”— 

[had already matured a rough plan of escape 
which a natural instinct of selfishness forbade me 
_ sharing with Gunga Dass. He, however, divined 
my unspoken thought almost as soon as it was 
formed ; and, to my intense astonishment, gave vent 
to a long low chuckle of derision—the laughter, be 
it understood, of a superior or at least of an equal. 
You will not ”—he had dropped the Sir com- 


a 


46 THE STRANGE RIDE. 


pletely after his opening sentence—“make any 
escape that way. But you can try. Ihave tried. 
Once only.” 

The sensation of nameless terror and abject fear 
which I had in vain attempted to strive against 
overmastered me completely. My long fast—it was — 
now close upon ten o’clock, and I had eaten nothing 
since tiffin on the previous day—combined with the 
violent and unnatural agitation of the ride, had ex- 
hausted me, and I verily believe that, for a few 3 
minutes, I acted as one mad. I hurled myself 
against the pitiless sand-slope. JI ran round the base — 
of the crater, blaspheming and praying by turns. I 
crawled out among the sedges of the river-front, 
only to be driven back each time in an agony of — 
nervous dread by the rifle-bullets which cut up the ~ 
sand round me—for I dared not face the death of a 
mad dog among that hideous crowd—and finally © 
fell, spent and raving, at the curb of the well. No — 
one had taken the slightest notice of an exhibition — 
which makes me blush hotly even when I think of — 
it now. ; 

Two or three men trod on my canta body as — 
they drew water, but they were evidently used to — 
this sort of thing, and had no time to waste upon — 
me. The situation was humiliating. Gunga Dass, — 
indeed, when he had banked the embers of his fire — 
with sand, was at some pains to throw half a cup- 
ful of fetid water over my head, an attention for 
which I could have fallen on my knees and thanked 
him, but he was laughing all the while in the sam 


THE STRANGE RIDE. AT 


-mirthless, wheezy key that greeted me on my first 


attempt to force the shoals. And so, in a semi- 
comatose condition, I lay till noon. Then, being 
only a man after all, I felt hungry, and intimated as 
much to Gunga Dass, whom I had begun to regard ~ 
as my natural protector. Following the impulse of 
the outer world when dealing with natives, I put 
my hand into my pocket anddrew out four annas. 
The absurdity of the gift struck me at once, and I 
was about to replace the money. 

Gunga Dass, however, was of a different opinion. 
“Give me the money,” said he; “all you have, or 
I will get help, and we will kill you!” All this as 
if it were the most natural thing in the world! 

A Briton’s first impulse, I believe, is to guard 
the contents of his pockets; but a moment’s re- 
flection convinced me of the futility of differing 
with the one man who had it in his power to make 
me comfortable ; and with whose help it was pos- 
sible that [might eventually escape from the crater. 
I gave him all the money in my possession, Rs. 9- 
8-5—nine rupees eight annas and five pie—for I 
always keep small change as bakshish when I am in 
camp. Gunga Dass clutched the coins, and hid 
them at once in his ragged loin-cloth, his expression 
changing to something diabolical as he looked round 
to assure himself that no one had observed us. 

“ Now I will give you something to eat,” said he. 

What pleasure the possession of my money could 
have afforded him I am unable to say ; but inasmuch 
as it did give him evident delight, I was not sorry 


4g THE STRANGE RIDE. 


that I had parted with it so readily, for I had no oo 
doubt that he would have had me killed if I had = 


refused. One does not protest against the vagarics 
of a den of wild beasts; and my companions were — : 


lower than any beasts. While I devoured what 


Gunga Dass had provided, a coarse chapatt: and a = 


cupful of the foul well-water, the people showed not 
the faintest sign of curiosity—that curiosity which — 
is so rampant, as a rule, in an Indian village. : a 

I could even fancy that they despised me. Atall 
events they treated me with the most chilling indif.= 
ference, and Gunga Dass was nearly as bad. I 
plied ie with questions about the terrible village, 
and received extremely unsatisfactory answers. 


So far as I could gather, it had been in existence 3 


from time immemorial—whence I concluded that it 


was at least a century old—and during that time no — s 
one had ever been known to escape fromit. [I[had 


to control myself here with both hands, lest the 
blind terror should lay hold of me a second time 
and drive me raving round the crater.] Gunga 


Dass took a malicious pleasure in emphasizing this _ 


point and in watching me wince. Nothing that I 
could do would induce him to tell me who the mys- 
terious “ They” were. = 

“Tt is so ordered,” he would reply, “and I do not 
yet know any one vie has disobeyed the orders.” 


“Only wait till my servants find that 1 am miss- : 2 
ing,’ I retorted, “and I promise you that this place @ oan 


shall be Alesecd off the face of the earth, and Mie 
give you a lesson in civility, too, my friend.” Ee aS 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 49 


‘Your servants would be torn in pieces before 
they came near this place; and, besides, you are 
dead, my dear friend. It is not your fault, of 
- course, but none the less you are dead and buried.” 

At irregular intervals supplies of food, I was told, 
were dropped down from the land side into the 
amphitheater, and the inhabitants fought for them 
like wild beasts. When a man felt his death com- 
ing on he retreated to his lair and died there. The 
body was sometimes dragged out of the hole and 
thrown on to the sand, or allowed to rot where it 
lay. 

The phrase “thrown on to the sand” caught mv 
attention, and I asked Gunga Dass whether this 
sort of thing was not likely to breed a pestilence. 
“That,” said he, with another of his wheezy 
chuckles, “you may see for yourself subsequently. 
You will have much time to make observations.” 

Whereat, to his great delight, I winced once more 
and hastily continued the conversation :—“ And 
how do you live here from day to day? What do 
you do?” The question elicited exactly the same 
answer as before—coupled with the information 
that “ this place is like your European heaven ; there 
is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.” | 

Gunga Dass had been educated at a Mission 
School, and, as he himself admitted, had he only 
changed his religion “like a wise man,” might have 
avoided the living grave which was now his portion. 
But as long asI was with him I fancy he was 


happy. 
4 


50 THE STRANGE RIDE. 


Here was a Sahib, a representative of the domi- 
nant race, helpless as a child and completely at the 
mercy of his native neighbors. In a deliberate lazy — 
way he set himself to torture me as a school-boy 
would devote a rapturous half-hour to watching the 
agonies of an impaled beetle, or as a ferret in a 
blind burrow might glue himself comfortably to the | 
neck of arabbit. The burden of his conversation 
was that there was no escape “of no kind what- 
ever,’ and that I should stay here till I died and 
was “thrown on to the sand.” If it were possible 
to forejudge the conversation of the Damned on the 
advent of a new soul in their abode, I should say 
that they would speak as Gunga Dass did to me — 
throughout that long afternoon. I was powerless 
to protest or answer ; all my energies being devoted - 
to a struggle against the inexplicable terror that 
threatened to overwhelm me again and again. I — 
can compare the feeling to nothing except the strug- 
gles of a man against the overpowering nausea of 
the Channel passage—only my agony was of the 
spirit and infinitely more terrible. 

As the day wore on, the inhabitants began to ap- 
pear in full strength to catch the rays of the after- 
noon sun, which were now sloping in at the mouth 


of the crater. They assembled in little knots, and 


talked among themselves without even throwing a 
glance in my direction. About four o’clock, as far 


as I could judge, Gunga Dass rose and dived into 
his lair for a moment, emerging with a live crow in _ 


his hands. The wretched bird was in a most drag- 


{ 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 51 


gled and deplorable condition, but seemed to be in 
no way afraid of its master. Advancing cautiously 
to the river-front, Gunga Dass stepped from tussock 
to tussock until he had reached a smooth patch of 
sand directly in the line of the boat’s fire. The 
occupants of the boat took no notice. Here he 
stopped, and, with a couple of dexterous turns of 
the wrist, pegged the bird on its back with out- 
stretched wings. As was only natural, the crow 
began to shriek at once and beat the air with its 
claws. Ina few seconds the clamor had attracted 


the attention of a bevy of wild crows on a shoal a 


' few hundred yards away, where they were discuss- 


ing something that looked like a corpse. Half a 
dozen crows flew over at once to see what was going 
on, and also, as it proved, to attack the pinioned 
bird. Gunga Dass, who had lain down on a tussock, 
motioned to me to be quiet, though I fancy this was 
a needless precaution. In a moment, and before I 
could see how it happened, a wild crow, who had 
grappled with the shrieking and helpless bird, was 
entangled in the latter’s claws, swiftly disengaged 
by Gunga Dass, and pegged down beside its com- 
panion in adversity. Curiosity, it seemed, over- 
powered the rest of the flock, and almost before 
Gunga Dass and I had time to withdraw to the tus- 


sock, two more captives were struggling in the up- 


turned claws of the decoys. . So the chase—if I can 
give it so dignified a name—continued until Gunga 
Dass had captured seven crows. Five of them he 
throttled at once, reserving two for further opera- 


52 THE STRANGE RIDE. (7 


tions oe day. I was a good deal impressed b: 
this, to me, novel method of securing food, and com- 
plimented Gunga Dass on his. skill. aie a 
“It is nothing to do,” said he. * To-morrow you 
must do it for me. You are stronger than J am.” 
This calm assumption of superiority upset: 1 me wc a 
a little, and I answered peremptorily :—“ Indeed, — 
you old ruffian! What do you think I have given : 
you money for?” S 
“Very well,’ was the unmoved tere Pe Por: : 
haps not to-morrow, nor the day after, nor subse- — 
quently ; but in the end, and for many years, you 
will catch crows and eat crows, and you will thank 
your European God that you have crows to > eateh 
and eat.” | 
I could have cheerfully strancied hind ee this s x 
but judged it best under the circumstances to smother 
my resentment. An hour later I was eating one of 
the crows; and, as Gunga Dass had said, thanking” 
my God that I had a crow to eat. Never as long 
as I live shall I forget that evening meal. The 
whole population were squatting on the hard sand 
platform opposite their dens, huddled over tiny fires 
of refuse and dried rushes. Death, having once laid 
his hand upon these men and forborne to strike, 
seemed to stand aloof from them now; for most of 
our company were old men, bent a worn and 
twisted with years, and women aged to all appear- 
ance as the Fates themselves. They sat together i In 
knots and talked—God only knows what they 1 found 
to discuss—in low equable tones, curiously i in con 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 53 


trast to the strident babble with which natives are 
accustomed to make day hideous. Now and then 
an access of that sudden fury which had possessed 
me in the morning would lay hold on a man or 
woman; and with yells and imprecations the sufferer 
would attack the steep slope until, baffled and bleed- 
ing, he fell back on the platform incapable of moy- 


_ ingalimb. The others would never even raise their 


eyes when this happened, as men too well aware of 
the futility of their fellows’ attempts and wearied 
with their useless repetition. I saw four such out- 
bursts in the course of that evening. 

Gunga Dass took an eminently business-like view 
of my situation, and while we were dining—I can 
afford to laugh at the recollection now, but it was 
painful enough at the time—propounded the terms 
on which he would consent to “do” forme. My 
nine rupees eight annas, he argued, at the rate of 
three annas a day, would provide me with food for 
fifty-one days, or about seven weeks ; that is to say, 
he would be willing to cater for me for that length 
of time. At the end of it I was to look after my- 
self. For a further consideration—vdelicet my 
boots—he would be willing to allow me to occupy 
the den next to his own, and would supply me with 
as much dried grass for bedding as he could spare. 

“ Very well, Gunga Dass,” I replied; ‘ to the first 
terms I cheerfully agree, but, as there is nothing on 
earth to prevent my killing you as you sit here and 
taking everything that you have ” (I thought of the 
two invaluable crows at the time), “I flatly refuse 


54. THE STRANGE RIDE. 


to give on my boots and shall take whichever den ~ 


IT please.” 
The stroke was a bold one, and I was glad when 


I saw that it had succeeded. Gunga Dass changed — 


his tune immediately, and disavowed all intention 


of asking for my boots. At the time it didnot strike — 


me as at all strange that I, a Civil Engineer, a man 
of thirteen years’ standing in the Service, and, I 
trust, an average Englishman, should thus calmly 
threaten murder and violence against the man who 


had, for a consideration it is true, taken me under 
his wing. I had left the world, it seemed, for cen- — 
turies. I was as certain then as] am now of my — 
own existence, that in the accursed settlement there 


was no law save that of the strongest ; that the liv- 


ing dead men had thrown behind them every canon 4 


of the world which had cast them out; and that I 
had to depend for my own life on my strength and 


vigilance alone. The crew of the ill-fated Migno- a 


nette are the only men who would understand my 
frame of mind. “ At present,’ I argued to myself, 
“1 am strong and a match for six of these wretches. 


It is imperatively necessary that I should, for my 4 
own sake, keep both health and strength until the = 


hour of my release comes—if it ever. does.” 


Fortified with these resolutions, I ate and drank “4 
as much as I could, and made Gunes Dass under- 


stand that I intended to be his master, and that the 


least sign of insubordination on his part would be 
visited with the only punishment I had it in my 
power to inflict sudden and violent death. Shortly - 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 55 


after this Lwent to bed. That is to say, Gunga 
Dass gave me a double armful of dried bents which 
I thrust down the mouth of the lair to the right of 
his, and followed myseif, feet foremost; the hole 
running about nine feet into the sand with a slight 
downward inclination, and being neatly shored with 
timbers. From my den, which faced the river-front, 
I was able to watch the waters of the Sutlej flowing 
past under the light of a young moon and compose 
myself to sleep as best I might. 

The horrors of that night I shall never forget. 
My den was nearly as narrow as a coffin, and the 
sides had been worn smooth and greasy by the con- 
tact of innumerable naked bodies, added to which it 
smelled abominably. Sleep was altogether out of 
question to one in my excited frame of mind. As 
the night wore on, it seemed that the entire amphi- 
theater was filled with legions of unclean devils 
that, trooping up from the shoals below, mocked the 
unfortunates in their lairs. 

Personally I am not of an imaginative temper- 
ament,—very few Engineers are,—but on that occa- 
sion [ was as completely prostrated with nervous 
terror asany woman. After halfan hour or so, how- 
ever, [ was able once more to calmly review my 
chances of escape. Any exit by the steep sand walls 
was, of course, impracticable. I had been thoroughly 
convinced of thissome time before. It was possible, 
just possible, that I might, in the uncertain moon- 
light, safely run the gauntlet of the rifle shots. 
_ The place was so full of terror for me that I was 


56 THE STRANGE RIDE. ae 


prepared to undergo any risk inleaving it. Imagine 
my delight, then, when after creeping stealthily to 
the river-front I found that the infernal boat was 
not there. My freedom lay before me in the next — 
few steps! : 

By walking out to the first sielion pool that lay a 
at the foot of the projecting left horn of the horse- — 
shoe, I could wade across, turn the flank of the — 
crater and make my way inland. Without a 
moment’s hesitation I marched briskly past the tus- _ 
socks where Gunga Dass had snared the crows, and 
out in the direction of the smooth white sud be- 
_yond. My first step from the tufts of dried grass — 
showed me how utterly futile was any hope of es — 
cape; for, as I put my foot down, I felt an inde- 
scribable drawing, sucking motion “i the sand below. 
Another moment and my leg was swallowed up 
nearly to the knee. In the moonlight the whole 
surface of the sand seemed to be shaken with dey- 
ilish delight at my disappointment. 1 struggled 
clear, sweating with terror and exertion, back to the 
Sacpck behind me and fell on my face. <4 

My only means of escape from the semicircle was a 
~ protected with a quicksand! = 

How long I lay I have not the faintest iden: but. 
I was roused at last by the malevolent chiki of 
Gunga Dass at my ear. ‘I would advise you, Pro- 
tector of the Poor ” (the ruffian was speaking Eng- 
lish) “to return to your house. It is unhealthy to 
lie down here. Moreover, when the boat returns, 
you will most certainly be rifled at.” He stood 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 57 


over me in the dim light of the dawn, chuckling and 
laughing to himself. Suppressing my first impulse 
to catch the man by the neck and throw him on to 
the quicksand, I rose sullenly and followed him to 
the platform below the burrows. 

Suddenly, and futilely as I thought while I spoke 
I asked :—“ Gunga Dass, what is the good of the 
boat if I can’t get out anyhow?” I recollect that. 
even in my deepest trouble I had been speculating 
vaguely on the waste of ammunition in guarding an 


already well protected foreshore. 


Gunga Dass laughed again and made answer :— 
“They have the boat only in daytime. It is for the 
reason that there isa way. Ihope weshall have the 
pleasure of your company for much longer time. 
It is a pleasant spot when you have been here some 
years and eaten roast crow long enough.” 

I staggered, numbed and helpless, towards the 
fetid burrow allotted to me, and fell asleep. An 
hour or so later I was awakened by a piercing 
scream—the shrill, high-pitched scream of a horse 


in pain. Those who have once heard that will 


never forgot the sound. I found some little dif- 
ficulty in scrambling out of the burrow. When I 
was in the open, I saw Pornic, my poor old Pornic, 
lying dead on the sandy soil. How they had killed 
him I cannot guess. Gunga Dass explained that 
horse was better than crow, and “ greatest good of 
greatest number is political maxim. We are now 
Republic, Mister Jukes, and you are entitled to a 


also die.” 


STRANGE RIDE. 


THE 


fair share of the beast. If you like, we will pass 2 a 
vote of thanks. Shall I propose?” ve 
Yes, we were a Republic indeed! A Ropable of : 
wild beasts penned at the bottom of a pit, to eat 
and fight and sleep till we died. I attempted no- 
protest of any kind, but sat down and stared at the © 
hideous sight in front of me. In less time almost 
than it takes me to write this, Pornic’s body was 
divided, in some unclean way or other; the men 
and women had dragged the fragments on to the 
platform and were preparing their morning meal. — 
Gunga Dass cooked mine. The almost irresistible — 
impulse to fly at the sand walls until I was wearied 
laid hold of me afresh, and I had to struggle against 
it with all my might. Gunga Dass was offensively 
jocular till I told him that if he addressed another 
remark of any kind whatever to me I should strangl 
him where he sat. This silenced him till silence 
became ‘insupportable, and I bade oes say some 
thing. 
“ You will live here till you die like the othel 
Feringhi,’ he said coolly, watching me over the 
fragment of gristle that he was gnawing. 
“What other Sahib, you swine? Speak at ones 
and don’t stop to tell me a lie.” | . 
‘“‘ He is over there,’ answered Gunga Dass, point 
ing to a burrow ionth about four doors to the lef 
of my own. “You can see for yourself. He died 
in the burrow as you will die, and I will die, and : 


y 


as all these men and women and the one child wil 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 59 


“ For pity’s sake tell me all you know about him. 
Who was he? When did he come, and when did he 
die?’ . 

This appeal was a weak step on my part. Gunga 
Dass only leered and replied :—‘“ I will not—unless 
you give me something first.” 

Then I recollected where I was, and struck the 


_ man between the eyes, partially stunning him. He 


Ris 2 
: 
a tS 


stepped down from the platform at once, and, cring- 
ing and fawning and weeping and attempting to 
embrace my feet, led me round to the burrow which 
he had indicated. 

“1 know nothing whatever about the gentleman. 
Your God be my witness that Ido not. He was as 
anxious to escape as you were, and he was shot from 
the boat, though we all did all things to prevent him 
from attempting. He was shot here.” Gunga 
Dass laid his hand on his lean stomach and bowed 
to the earth. 

“ Well, and what then? Go on!” 

“And then—and then, Your Honor, we car- 
ried him into his house and gave him water, and put 
wet cloths on the wound, and he laid down in his 
house and gave up the ghost.” 

“In how long? In how long?” 

“ About half an hour after he received his wound. 
I call Vishn to witness,” yelled the wretched man, 
“that I did everything for him. Everything which 
was possible, that I did!” 

He threw himself down on the ground and clasped 
my ankles. But I had my doubts about Gunga 


60. THE STRANGE RIDE. 


Dass’s benevolence, and kicked him off as he ” Be 


protesting. | 

“T believe you robbed him of everything he had. 
But I can find out in a minute or two. How long 
was the Sahib here ?”’ 


“Nearly a year and ahalf. I think he must have 3 
gone mad. But hear me swear, Protector of the 
Poor! Won’t Your Honor hear me swear that I ~ 


never touched an article that belonged to him? — 


What is Your Worship going to do?” 
I had taken Gunga Dass by the waist and had 


PHAN eo AER ONTES 


hauled him on to the platform opposite the deserted — 


burrow. As I did so I thought of my wretched : 
fellow-prisoner’s unspeakable misery among all these — 
horrors for eighteen months, and the final agony of — 
dying like a rat in a hole, with a bullet-wound in ~ 
the stomach. Gunga Dass fancied I was going to — 


kill him and howled pitifully. The rest of the popu- 
lation, in the plethora that follows a full flesh meal, ~ 
watched us without stirring. 

“Go inside, Gunga Dass,” said I, “and fetch iby 
out.” 


I was feeling sick and faint with horror now. : 


Gunga Dass ne rolled off the platform and 
howled aloud. 


“ But [am Brahmin, Sahib—a high- caste Brahmin. 


_ By your soul, by your father’s soul, do not make me > 
do this ine! ts 


“Brahmin or no Brahmin, by my a and my 
father’s soul, in you go!” I ae and, seizing him — 
by the shoulders, I crammed his head tate the mouth — 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 61 


. of the burrow, kicked the rest of him in, and, sitting 
down, covered my face with my hands. 

At the end of a few minutes I heard a rustle and 
a creak; then Gunga Dass in a sobbing, choking 
whisper speaking to himself; then a soft thud—and 
IT uncovered my eyes. 

The dry sand had turned the corpse entrusted to 
its keeping into a yellow-brown mummy. [ told 
Gunga Dass to stand off while I examined it. The 
body—clad in an olive-green hunting-suit much 
stained and worn, with leather pads on the shoulders 
—was that of a man between thirty and forty, above 
middle height, with light, sandy hair, long mustache, 
and a rough unkempt beard. The left canine of the 
upper jaw was missing, and a portion of the lobe of 
the right ear was gone. On the second finger of 
the left hand was aring—a shield-shaped bloodstone 
set in gold, with a monogram that might have been 
either “B.K.” or “B.L.” On the third finger of — 
the right hand was a silver ring in the shape of a 
coiled cobra, much worn and tarnished. Gunga Dass 
deposited a handful of trifles he had picked out of 
the burrow at my feet, and covering the face of the 
body with my handkerchief, I turned to examine 
these. I give the full list in the hope that it 
may lead to the identification of the unfortunate 
man :— 

1. Bowl of a briarwood pipe, serrated at the edge ; 
much worn and blackened ; bound with string at 
the screw. 

2. Two patent-lever keys; wards of both broken, 


62 - THE STRANGE RIDE. 


3. Tortoise-shell-handled penknife, silver or nickel 
name-plate, marked with monogram “ B. K.? — 

4, Envelope, post-mark undecipherable, bearing 
a Victorian stamp, addressed to “ Miss Mon— 
(rest illegible)—“ ham ”—“nt.” 

5. Imitation crocodile-skin note-book Se pencil. : 
First forty-five pages blank ; four anda halfillegible; 
fifteen others filled with private memoranda relating 
chiefly to three persons—a Mrs. L. Singleton, ab 
breviated several times to “Lot Single,” “Mrs. § 
May,” and “ Garmison,” referred to in places a a 
“ Jerry” or “Jack.” : 

6. Handle of small-sized hinting ee “Blad 
snapped short. Buck’s horn, diamond-cut, with 
swivel and ring on the butt 5 fragment of cotton 
cord attached. eS 

It'must not be supposed that I inventoried al 
these things on the spot as fully as I have here 
written them down. The note-book first attracte 
my attention, and I put it in my pocket with 
view to studying it lateron. The rest of the article: 
I conveyed to my burrow safety’s sake, and there 
being a methodical man, I inventoried ther. I then 
returned to the corpse ae ordered Gunga Dass tc 
help me carry it out to the river front. While w 
were engaged in this, the exploded shell of an old 
brown cartridge dropped out of one of the pockets 
and rolled at my feet. Gunga Dass had not seeni 
and I fell to thinking that a man does not carry ex- 
ploded cartridge-cases, especially ‘“ browns,” which 
will not bear loading twice, about with a whe 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 63 


shooting. In other words, that cartridge-case had 


been fired inside the. crater. Consequently there. 
- must be a gun somewhere. I was on the verge of 


asking Gunga Dass, but checked myself, knowing 
that he would lie. We laid the body down on the 
edge of the quicksand by the tussocks. It was my 


- intention to push it out and let it be swallowed up 


—the only possible mode of burial that I could think 
of. I ordered Gunga Dass to go away. 

Then I gingerly put the corpse out on the quick- 
sand. In doing so, it was lying face downward, I 
tore the frail and rotten khaki shooting-coat open, 
disclosing a hideous cavity in- the back. I have 


already told you that the dry sand had, as it were, 


mummified the body. A moment’s glance showed 
that the gaping hole had been caused by a gunshot 
wound; the gun must have been fired with the 
muzzle almost touching the back. The shooting- 
coat, being intact, had been drawn over the body 
after death, which must have been instantaneous. 
The secret of the poor wretch’s death was plain to 
me in a flash. Someone of the crater, presumably 
Gunga Dass, must have shot him with his own gun 
—the gun that fitted the brown cartridges. He 


had never attempted to escape in the face of the 


rifle-fire from the boat. F 
I pushed the corpse out ‘hastily, and saw it sink 
from sight literally in a few seconds. I shuddered 
as I watched. In a dazed, half-conscious way I 
turned to peruse the notebook. A stained and dis- 
colored slip of paper had been inserted between the 


64. THE STRANGE RIDE. 


binding and the back, and dropped out as I opened 
the pages. This is what it contained :—‘ Pour out 
from crow-clump: three left; nineout; two right ; 
three back ; two left; fourteen out ; two left; seven 
out; one left; nine back; two right ; su back ; 
four right ; seven back.” The paper had been burnt 


and charred at the edges. What it meant I could — 
not understand. I sat down on the dried bents — 
turning it over and over between my fingers, until I 
was aware of Gunga Dass standing immediately — 
behind me with glowing eyes and outstretched 


hands. : 
“Have you got>it?” he panted. “ Will you 


not let me look at it also? I swear that I will re- 


4 


turn it.” 

“Got what? Return what?” I asked. 

“That which you have in your hands. It will 
help us both.” He stretched out his long, bird-like 
talons, trembling with eagerness. 

“‘T could never find it,’ he continued. ‘‘ He had 


secreted it about his person. Therefore I shot him, 


but nevertheless I was unable to obtain it.” 

Gunga Dass had quite forgotten his little fiction 
about the rifle-bullet. I received the information 
perfectly calmly. Morality is blunted by consorting 
with the Dead who are alive. | 

“What on earth are you raving about? What is 
it you want me to give you! ae 

“The piece of paper in the note-book. It will 


help us both. Oh, you fool! You fool! Can you 
not see what it will do for us? We shall escape!” 


3 FON 


pi see reer i cna ir sae ened UAB oe ee 


EN IS an ge Es ek 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 65 


His voice rose almost to a scream, and he danced 
with excitement before me. I own I was moved at 
the chance of getting away. 

“Don’t skip! Explain yourself. Do you mean 
to say that this slip of paper will help us? What 
does it mean?” 

“Read it aloud! Read it aloud! I beg and I 
pray to you to read it aloud.” 

I did so. Gunga Dass listened delightedly, and 
drew an irregular line in the sand with his fingers. 

“See now! It was the length of his gun-barrels 
without the stock. I have those barrels. Four 
gun-barrels out from the place where I caught crows. 
Straight out ; do you follow me? Then three left 
—Ah! how well remember when that man worked 
it out night after night. Then nine out, and so on. 
Out is always straight before you across the quick- 
sand. He told me so before I killed him.” 

“ But if you knew all this why didn’t you get out 
before ? ” 

“TI did not know it. He told me that he was 
working it out a year and a half ago, and how he 
was working it out night after night when the boat 
had gone away, and he could get-out near the quick- 
sand safely. Then he said that we would get away 
together. But I was afraid that he would leave me 
behind one night when he had worked it all out, 
and so I shot him. Besides, it is not advisable that 
the men who once get in here should escape. Only 
I, and Zam a Brahmin.” 

The prospect of escape had brought Gunga Dass’s 

F) 


66 "HE STRANGE RIDE. 


caste back to him. He stood up, walked about an 
gesticulated violently. Eventually I managed t 
make him talk soberly, and he told me how this 
Englishman had spent six months night after night 
in exploring, inch by inch, the passage across the 
quicksand ; how he had declared it to be simplicity — 
itself up to within about twenty yards of the river 
bank after turning the flank of the left horn of the 
horseshoe. This much he had evidently not com-— 
pleted when Gunga Dass shot him with his own gun. 

In my frenzy of delight at the possibilities of 
escape I recollect shaking hands effusively with 
Gunga Dass, after we had decided that we were 
to make an attempt to get away that very night. 
It was weary work waiting throughout _ after-_ 
noon. 2 
About ten o’clock, as'far as I could idee a 
the Moon had just risen above the lip of the crater 
Gunga Dass made a move for his burrow to brin 
out one gun-barrels whereby to measure our path 
‘All the other wretched inhabitants had retired t 
their lairs long ago. The guardian boat drifte 
downstream some hours before, and we were utterl: 
alone by the crow-clump. Gunga Dass, while carry 
ing the gun-barrels, let slip the piece of paper whic 
was to be our guide. I stooped down hastily t 
recover it, and, as I did so, I was aware that th 
diabolical Brahmin was aiming a violent blow 
the back of my head with the gun-barrels. It wa 
too late to turn round. I must have received th 
blow somewhere on the nape of my neck, <A hun- 


AS Ree sepa a: ae gel ae CS AE ON Pee ee Pa tas a Se var ds eae Mleae A ae 
hey Die aye ep a ee Pt ie ; * > : S 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 67 


dred thousand fiery stars danced before my eyes, 


and I fell forward senseless at the edge of the quick- 
sand. 

When I recovered consciousness, the Moon was 
going down, and I was sensible of intolerable pain 
in the back of my head. Gunga Dass had disap- 
peared and my mouth was full of blood. I laid 
down again and prayed that I might die without 
more ado. Then the unreasoning fury which I have 
before mentioned laid hold upon me, and I staggered 
inland towards the walls of the crater. It seemed 
that some one was calling to me in a whisper— 
“Sahib! Sahib! Sahib!” exactly as my bearer 
used to call me in the mornings. I fancied that I 
was delirious until a handful of sand fell at my feet. 
Then I looked up and saw a head peering down into 
the amphitheater—the head of Dunnoo, my dog-boy 
who attended to my collies. As soon as he had 
attracted my attention, he held up his hand and 
showed a rope. I motioned, staggering to and fro 
the while, that he should throw it down. It was 


a couple of leather punkah-ropes knotted together, 


_ with a loop at one end. I slipped the loop over my 


head and under my arms; heard Dunnoo urge some- 
thing forward; was conscious that I was being drag- 
ged, face downward, up the steep sand slope, and 
the next instant found myself choked and half faint- 


ing on the sand hills overlooking the crater. Dun- 


noo, with his face ashy gray in the moonlight, im- 
plored me not to stay, but to get back to my tent 
at once. 


rae 


68 ‘THE STRANGE RIDE. 


It seems that he had tracked Pong S footprint 
fourteen miles across the sands to the crater; had 
returned and told my servants, who flatly refused 
to meddle with any one, white or black, once fallen 
into the hideous Village of the Dead; whereupon 
Dunnoo had taken one of my ponies and a couple 
of punkah ropes, returned to the crater, and hauled 
me out as I have described. 

To cut a long story short, Dunnoo is now my per- 
sonal servant on a gold mohur a month—a sum 
which I still think far too little for the services he 
has rendered. Nothing on earth will induce me to 
go near that devilish spot again, or to reveal its” 
whereabouts more clearly than I have done. O: 
Gunga Dass I have never found a trace, nor do I 
wish to do. My sole motive in giving this to be 
published is the hope that some one may possibly 
identify, from the details and the inventory which 
I have given above, the corpse of the man in the: 
olive-green hunting-suit. | | 


THE MAN WHO WOULD 
BE KING. 


— 


‘¢ Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found 
worthy.” 


Tue Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of 
life, and one not easy to follow. Ihave been fellow 
to a beggar again and again under circumstances 
which prevented either of us finding out whether © 
the other was worthy. I have still to be brother to 
a Prince, though I once came near to kinship with 
what might have been a veritable King and was 
promised the reversion of a Kingdom—army, law- 
courts, revenue and policy all complete. But, to- 
day, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I 
- want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself. 

The beginning of everything was in a railway 
train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There 
had been a Deficit in the Budget, which necessitated 
traveling, not Second-class, which is only half as 
dear as First-class, but by Intermediate, which is 
very awful indeed. There are no cushions in the 
Intermediate class, and the population are either 


70 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. e 


Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, wh 
for a long night journey is nasty, or Lote which 
is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do 
not patronize refreshment. rooms. They carry their 
food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the 
native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside 
water. That is why in a hot weather Intermedi- 
ates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all 
weathers are most properly looked joee upon. 4 
My particular Intermediate happened to be empty — 
till I reached Nasirabad, when a huge gentleman in 
shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom o 
Intermediates, passed fis time of day. He was. 
wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with a 
educated taste for whisky. He told tales of thing 
he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the 
Empire into which he had penetrated, and of a 
ventures in which he risked his life for a few days’ 
food. “If India was filled with men like you an 
me, not knowing more than the crows where they'd 
get their next day’s rations, it isn’t seventy millions 
of revenue the land would be paying—it’s seven 
hundred millions,” said he; and as I looked at h 
mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with him 
We talked politics—the politics of Loaferdom tha 
Sees things from the underside where the lath an 
plaster is not smoothed off—and we talked postal 
arrangements because my friend wanted to send a 
telegram back from the next station to Ajmir, whic 
is the turning-off place from the Bombay to th 
Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend ha 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 71 


“no money beyond eight annas which he wanted for 
dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the 
hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I 
was going into a wilderness where, though I should 
resume touch with the Treasury, there were no 
telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to help 
him in any way. 

“We might threaten a Station-master, and make 
him send a wire on tick,” said my friend, “ but that’d 
mean inquiries for you and for me, and I’ve got my 
hands full these days. Did you say you are travel- 
ing back along this line within any days ? ” 

Within ten,” I said. 

“Can’t you make it eight?” said he. “ Mine is 
rather urgent business.” 

**T can send your telegram within ten days if that 
will save you,” I said. 

“T couldn’t trust the wire to fetch him, now I 
think of it. It’s this way. He leaves Delhi on the 
23d for Bombay. That means he’ll be running 
through Ajmir about the night of the 23d.” 

“But I’m going into the Indian Desert,” I ex- 
plained. 

“Well and good,” said he. “You'll be changing 
at Marwar Junction to get into Jodhpore territory 
—you must do that—and he’ll be coming through 
Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th 
by the Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar 
Junction onthattime? ’*Twon’t beinconveniencing 
you because I know that there’s precious few pick- 
ings to be got out of these Central India States— 


72 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


even though oy iene to be correspondent of the Z 
Backwoodsman.” a 
‘“‘ Have you ever tried:that trick?” I asked. 7 
“ Again and again, but the Residents find you out, — 
and then you get escorted to the Border before yow’ve 2 
time to get your knife into them. But about my ~ 
friend here. I must give him a word o’ mouth to tell — 
him what’s come to me or else he won’t know where — 
to go. I would take it more than kind of you if you 
was to come out of Central India in time to catch him 
at Marwar Junction, and say to him :—‘ He has gone’ 
South for the week.’ He’ll know what means. He’s ~ 
a big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. — 
You'll find him sleeping ties a gentleman with all — 
his luggage round him in a Second-class sonal 
ment. But don’t you be afraid. Slip down the 
window, and say:—‘He has gone South for the — 
week,’ and he’ll tumble. It’s only cutting your © 
time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask you, 
as a stranger—going to the West,” he said with 
emhpasis. 
“Where have you come from ?” said c a 
“From the East,” said he, “and I am hoping 3 
that you will give him the message on the Squares 
for the sake of my Mother as well as your own.” — 
Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals — 
to the memory of their mothers, but for certai 
reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw fit b 
agree. & 
“Ts more than a little matter,’ said he, “an 
that’s why Iask you todo it—and now I know that 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. Co 


can depend on you doing it. A Second-class car- 
riage at Marwar Junction, anda red-haired man 
asleep in it. You’ll be sure to remember. I get 
out at the next station, and I must hold on there till 
he comes or sends me what I want.” 

“Tl give the message if I catch him,” I said, 
“and for the sake of your Mother as well as mine 
Pll give you a word of advice. Don’t try to run the 
Central India States just now as the correspondent 
of the Lackwoodsman. There’s a real one knocking 
about here, and it might lead to trouble.” 

“Thank you,” said he simply, “ and when will the 
swinebe gone? I can’tstarve because he’s running 
my work. I wanted to get hold of the Degumber 
Rajah down here about his father’s widow, and give 
hima jump.” 

* What did he do to his father’s widow, then?” 

“ Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her 
to death as she hung from a beam. I found that 
out myself, and ’m the only man that would dare 
going into the State to get hush-money for it. 
They’ll try to poison me, same as they did in 
Chortumna when I went on the loot there. But 
you'll give the manat Marwar Junction my mes- 
sage ?” 

He got out at a little roadside station, and I 
reflected. I had heard, more than once, of men 
personating correspondents of newspapers and bleed- 
ing small Native States with threats of exposure, 
but I had never met any of the caste before. They 
lead a hard life, and generally die with great sud- 


14 - THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


denness. The Native States have a wholesome — 
horror of English newspapers, which may throw light — 
on their peculiar methods of government, and do their — 
best to choke correspondents with champagne, or — 
drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand — 
barouches. They do not understand that nobody — 
cares a straw for the internal administration of the — 
Native States solong as oppression and crime are kept — 
within decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, 
drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the — 
other. Native States were created by Providence 
in order to supply picturesque scenery, tigers, and — 
tall-writing. They are the dark places of the earth © 
full of unimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway — 
and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, — 
the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the 
train I did buisness with divers Kings, and in eight — 
days passed through many changes of life. Some-— 
times I wore dress-clothes and consorted with — 
Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal and — 
eating from silver. Sometimes I lay out upon the — 
ground and devoured what I could get, from a plate — 
made of a flapjack, and drank the running water, — 
and slept under the same rug as my servant. It 
was all in the day’s work. ; 
Then I headed for the Great Indian Dacca upon & 
the proper date, as I had promised, and the night — 
Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, where a 
funny little, happy-go-lucky, native-managed rail 
way runs to Jodhpore. The Bombay Mail from 
Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrived 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 15 


as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her 
platform and go down the carriages. There was 
only one Second-class on the train. I slipped the 
window and looked down upon a flaming red beard, 
half covered by a railway rug. That was my man, 
fast asleep, and I dug him gently in theribs. He 
woke with a grunt and I saw his face in the light of 
the lamps. It was a great and shining face. 

“Tickets again?” said he. 

“No,” said I. “Iam to tell you that he is gone 
South for the week. He is gone South for the 
week! ” 

The train had begun to move out. Thered man 
rubbed his eyes. “He has gone South for the 
week,” he repeated. “ Now that’s just like his 
impidence. Did he say that I was to give you any- 
thing ?—’Cause I won’t.” 

“He didn’t,” I said and dropped away, and 
watched the red lights die out in the dark. It was 
horribly cold because the wind was blowing off the 
sands. I climbed into my own train—not an Inter- 
mediate Carriage this time—and went to sleep. 

If the man with the beard had given me a rupee 
I should have kept it as a memento of a rather curi- 
ous affair. But the consciousness of having done 
my duty was my only reward. 

Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my . 
friends could not do any good if they foregathered 
and personated correspondents of newspapers, and 
might, if they “stuck up” one of the little rat-trap 
states of Central India or Southern Rajputana get 


76 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


themselves into serious difficulties. I therefore to 
some trouble to describe them as accurately as | 
could remember to people who would be interester 
in deporting them; and succeeded, so I was la 
informed, in eee them headed Gare from t 
Degumber borders. : | 
Then I became respectable, and ratartigd fo. a: 
Office where there were no Kings and no incide 
except the daily manufacture of a newspaper. A 
newspaper office seems to attract every conceivabl 
sort of person, to the prejudice of discipline. Zen 
ana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that the Edit 
will instantly abandon all his duties to describe ; 
Christian prize-giving in a back-slum of a perfecth 
inaccessible village; Colonels who have been over. 
passed for commands sit down and sketch the out 
line of a series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leadi 
articles on Seniority versus Selection; missionaries — 
Wish to know why they have not been permitted to 
escape from their regular vehicles of abuse and swear 
at a brother-missionary under special patronage of 
the editorial We; stranded theatrical companies 
troop up to explain that they cannot pay for their 
advertisements, but on their return from New Zea- 
land or Tahiti wi do so with interest ; inventors of 
patent punkah-pulling machines, carriage couplir 
and unbreakable swords and axle-trees call wi 
specifications in their pockets and hours at th 
disposal; tea-companies enter and elaborate th 
prospectuses with the office pens; secretaries 
ball-committees clamor to have the glories of t 


eS vin ‘ 
us — 
— , 
ae 
¥ 


see 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. EE 


last dance more fully expounded; strange ladies 
rustle in and say :—“ I want a hundred lady’s cards 
printed at once, please,” which is manifestly part of 


an Editor’s duty; and every dissolute ruffian that 


ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his 
business to ask for employment as a proof-reader. 
And, all the time, the telephone-bell is ringing 


madly, and Kings are being killed on the Continent, 


and Empires are saying—“ Youw’re another,” and 
Mister Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon 
the British Dominions, and the little black copy- 
boys are’ whining, “kaa-pr chay-ha-yeh” (copy 
wanted) like tired bees, and most of the paper is 
as blank as Modred’s shield. 

But that is the amusing part of the year. There 
are other six months wherein none ever come to 
call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch up to 
the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to 
just about reading-light, and the press machines are 
red-hot of touch, and nobody writes anything but 


accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations, or 


obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a 
tinkling terror, because it tells you of the sudden 
deaths of men and women that you knew intimately, 
and the prickly-heat covers you as with a garment, 
and you sit down and write :—“ A slight increase of 
sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta Khan 
District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in its 
nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts of the 


District authorities, is now almost at an end. It is, 


however, with deep regret we record the death, etc.’ 


78 | THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less” 
recording and reporting the better for the peace of 
the subscribers. But the Empires and the Kings 
continue to divert themselves as selfishly as before, 
and the Foreman thinks that a daily paper reall 
ought to come out once in twenty-four hours, an 
all the people at the Hill-stations in the middle of 
their amusements say:—“Good gracious! Wh 
can’t the paper be apes I’m sure there’ 
plenty going on up here.” 4 

That is the dark half of the moon, and, as th 
advertisements say, “must be oxporened te b 
appreciated.” a 

It was in that season, and a remarkably evil son | 
son, that the paper Beran running the last issue of 
the week on Saturday night, which is to say Sun- — 
day morning, after the custom of a London paper. 
This wasa a convenience, for immediately after 
the paper was put to bed, ae dawn would lowerthe 
thermometer from 96° to almost 84° for half an hour, q 
and in that chill—you have no idea how cold is 84° 4 
on the grass until you begin to pray for it—a very 
tired man could set off to sleep ere the ae roused — 
him. q 
One Saturday night it was my none Juty to 
put the paper to bed alone. A King or courtier or 
a courtesan or a community was going to die or get 
a new Constitution, or do something that was im- 4 
portant on the other side of the world, and the 
paper was to be held open till the ee possible 
minute in order to catch the telegram. It was ¢ : 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 79 


pitchy black night, as stifling as a June night can 
_ be, and the Zoo, the red-hot wind from the westward, 
was booming among the tinder-dry trees and pre- 
tending that the rain was on its heels. Now and 
again a spot of almost boiling water would fall on 
the dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary 
world knew that was only pretense. It was a 
shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I 
sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, and 
the night-jars hooted at the windows, and the all 
but naked compositors wiped the sweat from their 
foreheads and called for water. The thing that 
was keeping us back, whatever it was, would not 
come off, though the Joo dropped and the last type 
was set, and the whole round earth stood still in 
the choking heat, with its finger on its lip to wait 
the event. J drowsed, and wondered whether the 
telegraph was a blessing, and whether this dying 
man, or struggling people, was aware of the in- 
convenience the delay was causing. ‘There was no 
special reason beyond the heat and worry to make 
tension, but, as the clock-hands crept up to three 
o'clock and the machines spun their fly-wheels two 
and three times to see that all was in order, before 
I said the word that would set them off, I could 
have shrieked aloud. 

Then the roar and rattle “of the wheels shivered 
the quiet into little bits. I rose to go away, but 
two men in white clothes stood in front of me. 
The first one said :—“ It’s him!” The second said : 
—“Soit is!” And they both laughed almost as 


80 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 
- ee 
loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped their 
foreheads. “ We see there was a light burning 
across the road and we were sleeping in that ditch 
there for coolness, and I said to my friend here, 
“The office is open. Let’s come along and speak to 
him as turned us back from the Degumber State,” 
said the smaller of the two. He was the man I had 
met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red 
bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was no 
mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of 
the Siher 2 
I was not pleased, because I wished to go tosleep, 
not to squabble with loafers. ‘ What do you want?’ 
I asked. 
“ Half an hour’s talk with you cool and contgee 
able, in the office,” said the red-bearded man. 
‘f We'd like some drink—the Contrack doesn’t begin 
yet, Peachey, so you needn’t look—but what we 
really want is advice. We don’t wantmoney. We 
ask you as a favor, because you did usa bad turn 
about Degumber.”’ 
I led from the press-room to the stifling offic 
with the maps on the walls, and the red-haired man 
rubbed his hands. “ That’s something like,” said 
he. “This was the proper shop to come to. Now 
Sir, let me introduce to you Brother Peache 
Carnehan, that’s him, and Brother Daniel Dravot, 
that is me, and the less said about our professions 
the better, for we have been most things in ou 
time. Soldier, sailor, compositor, photograph 
proof-reader, street-preacher, and correspondents 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. gil 


the Backwoodsman when we thought the paper 
wanted one. Carnehanis sober, andsoam I. Look 
at us first and see that’s sure. It will save you 
cutting into my talk. We'll take one of your cigars 
apiece, and you shall see us light.” 

I watched the test. The men were absolutely 
sober, so I gave them each a tepid peg. 

“ Welland good,” said Carnehan of the eyebrows, 
wiping the froth from his mustache. “ Let me talk 
now, Dan. We have been all over India, mostly on 
foot. We have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, 
petty contractors, and all that, and we have decided 
that India isn’t big enough for such as us.” 

They. certainly were too big for the office. 
Dravot’s beard seemed to fill half the room and 
Carnehan’s shoulders the other half, as they sat on 
the big table. Carnehan continued :—“ The country 
isn’t half worked out because they, that governs it 
won’t let you touch it. They spend all their blessed 
time in governing it, and you can’t lift a spade, nor 
chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that 
without all the Government saying—‘ Leave it 
alone and let us govern.’ Therefore, such as it is, 
we will let it alone, and go away to some other place 
where a man isn’t crowded and can come to his 
own. Weare not little men, and there is nothing 
that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have 
signed a Contrack on that. Therefore, we are going 
away to be Kings.” 

“ Kings in our own right,” muttered Dravot. 

2 ae of course,” Isaid. ‘“You’ve been tramp- 


82 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


ing in the sun, and it’s a very warm night, and 
hadn’t you better sleep over the notion? Come to- 
morrow.” : 

“Neither drunk nor sunstruck,” said Dravot. 
We have slept over the notion half a year, and re- 
quire to see Books and Atlases, and we have de- 
cided that there is only one place now in the world 
that two strong men can Sar-a-whack. They call it 
Kafiristan. By my reckoning it’s the top right- 
hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three 
hundred miles from Peshawar. They have twoand 
thirty heathen idols there, and we’ll be the thirty- 
third. It’s a mountainous country, and the women 
of those parts are very beautiful.” 

“‘ But that is provided against in the Contrack, ” 
said Carnehan. “ Neither Women nor Liqu-or, 
Daniel.” es 

“ And that’s all we know, except that no one has — 
gone there, and they fight and in any place where 
they fight a man who knows how to drill men can 
always bea King. We shall go to those parts and 
say to any King we find—‘ D’ you want to vanquish 
your foes?’ and we will show him how to drill 
men ; for that we know better than anything else. — 
Then we will subvert that King and seize his Throne 
and establish a Dy-nasty.” 

“Youll be cut to pieces before youre fifty miles 
across the Border,” I said. ‘“ You have to travel 
through Afghanistan to get to that country. It’s 
one mass of mountains and peaks and glaciers, and 
no Englishman has been through it.. The people 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 83 


are utter brutes, and even if you reached them you 
couldn’t do anything.” 

“That’s more like,’ said Carnehan. “If you 
could think us a little more mad we would be more 
pleased. We have come to you to know about this 
country, to read a book about it, and to be shown 
maps. We want you to tell us that we are fools 
and to show us your books.” He turned to the 
bookcases. 

“ Are you at all in earnest ?” I said. 

“A little,” said Dravot sweetly. “ As big a map 
as you have got, even if it’s all blank where Kafiris- 
tan is, and any books you’ve got. We can read, 
though we aren’t very educated.” 

I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map 
of India, and two smaller Frontier maps, hauled 
down volume INF-KAN of the Ancyclopedia Brit- 
tanica, and the men consulted them. 

“See here!” said Dravot, his thumb on the map. 
“Up to Jagdallak, Peachey and me know the road. 
We was there with Roberts’s Army. We’ll have to 
turn off to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann 
territory. Then weget among the hills—fourteen 
thousand feet—fifteen thousand—it will be cold 
work there, but it don’t look very far on the 
map.” 

I handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus. 
Carnehan was deep in the Encyclopedia. 

“They’re a mixed lot,” said Dravot reflectively ; 
“and it won’t help us to know the names of their 
tribes. The more tribes the more they’ll fight, and 


84. THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. : 


the better for us. From Jagdallak to ee. 
Hmm!” ae 
“ But all the information about the country is as 
sketchy and inaccurate as can be,” I protested. 
“No one knows anything about it really. Here’s — 
the file of the ees Services’ Institute. Read — 
_ what Bellew says.” “a 
“Blow Bellew!” said Carnehan. “ Dan, they’re 
an all-fired lot of heathens, but this book ie gee 
they think they’re related to us English.” 
I smoked while the men pored over Raverty, 
Wood, the maps and the Encyclopedia. 
“There is no use your waiting,” said Dravot 
politely. “It’s about four o’clock now. We'll go 
before six o’clock if you want to sleep, and we won’t 
steal any of the papers. Don’t you sit up. We're 
two harmless lunatics, and if you come, to-morrow ~ 
evening, down to the Serai, we’ll say good-by to you.” 
“You are two fools,” I answered. ‘You'll be — 
turned back at the Frontier or cut up the minute — 
you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you want any 
money or a recommendation down-country ? I can 
help you to the chance of work next week.” 
‘¢ Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, 
thank you,” said Dravot. “It isn’t so easy being a — 
King as it looks. When we’ve got our Kingdom in — 
going order we'll let you know, and you can come 
up and help us to govern it.” 
“Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that 2 % 
said Carnehan, with subdued pride, showing me a 
greasy half-sheet of note- Me on which was writte 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 85 


the following. I copied it, then and there, as a 
curiosity :— 


» This Contract between me and you persuing wit- 
nesseth in the name of God—Amen and so forth. _ 

(One) That me and iG will settle this matter 
together: i. e., to be Kings of Kapir- 
stan. 

(Two) That you and me will not, while this 
matter is being settled, look at any 
Liquor, nor any Woman black, white 
or brown, so as to get mixed up with one 
or the other harmful. 

(Three) That we conduct ourselves with dignity and 
discretion, and if one of us gets into 
trouble the other will stay by him. 

Signed by you and me this day. 
Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan. 
Daniel Druvot. 

Both Gentlemen at Large. 


“There was no need for the last article,” said. 
Carnehan, blushing modestly ; “ but it looks regular. 
Now you know the sort of men that loafers are—we 
are loafers, Dan, until we get out of India—and do - 
you think that we would sign a Contrack like that 
unless we was in earnest? Wehave kept away from 
the two things that make life worth having.” 

“You won’t enjoy your lives much longer if you 
are going to try this idiotic adventure. Don’t set 
the office on fire,” I said, “and go away before nine 
o'clock.” 


86 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


I left them still poring over the maps and making 
notes on the back of the “ Contrack.” “ Be sure to 
come downto the Serai to-morrow,” were en 
parting words. | 

The Kumbharsen Serai is the great four-square 
sink of humanity where the strings of camels and 
horses from the North load and unload. All the © 
nationalities of Central Asia may be found there, 
and most of the folk of India proper. Balkh and 
Bokhara there meet Bengal and Bombay, and try 
to draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises, 
Persian pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep and ~ 
musk in the Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange 
things for nothing. In the afternoon I went down 


there to see whether my friends intended to keep _ 


their word or were lying about drunk. 

A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags 
stalked'up to me, gravely twisting a child’s paper 
whirligig. Behind him was his servant bending 
under the load of a crate of mud toys. The two 
were loading up two camels, and the inhabitants of 
the Serai watched them with shrieks of laughter. 

“The priest is mad,” said a horse-dealer to me. 
“ We is going up to Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. 
He will either be raised to honor or have his head ~ 
cut off. He came in here this morning and has been 
behaving madly ever since.” : 

“The witless are under the protection of God,” 
stammered a flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. 
“They foretell future events.” : 

‘* Would they could have foretold that my cara- - 


wre 


THE MAN wHO WOULD BE KING. 87 


van would have been cut up by the Shinwaris almost 
within shadow of the Pass!” grunted the Eusufzai 
agent of a Rajputana trading-house whose goods 
had been feloniously diverted into the hands of other 
robbers just across the Border, and whose misfor- 
tunes were the laughing-stock of the bazar. “ Ohé, 
priest, whence come you and whither do you go?” 

“From Roum have I come,” shouted the priest, 
waving his whirligig; “from Roum, blown by the 
breath of a hundred devils across the sea! O thieves, 
robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, 
and perjurers! Who will take the Protected of God 
to the North to sell charms that are never still to 
the Amir? The camels shall not gall, the sons shall 
not fall sick, and the wives shall remain faithful 
while they are away, of the men who give me place 
in their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the 
King of the Roos with a golden slipper with a silver 
heel? The protection of Pir Khan be upon his 
labors!” He spread out the skirts of his gaber- 
dine and pirouetted between the lines of tethered 
horses. 

“There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul 
in twenty days, Huzrut,” said the Eusufzai trader. 
“My camels go therewith. Do thou also go and 
bring us good luck.” 

“J will go even now!” shouted the priest. “I 
will depart upon my winged camels, and be at 
Peshawar in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan,” he 
yelled to his servant, “drive out the camels, but let 
me first mount my own.” 


&8 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


He leaped on the back of his beast asit knelt, and, 


ae 


turning round to me, cried:—“Come thou also: a 


Sahib, a little along the road, and I will sell thee a 
charm—an amulet that shall make thee King of 
Kafiristan.” 


_ Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the ~ 


two camels out of the Serai till we reached open road 


and the priest halted. 


“What d’you think o’ that?” said he in English, — 


“ Oarnehan can’t talk their patter, so Pve made him — 
my servant. He makesa handsomeservant. *Tisn’t — 


for nothing that Pve been knocking about the 


country for fourteen years. Didn’t I do that talk 


neat? We'll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawar till — 
we get to Jagdallak, and then we’ll see if we can get — 


donkeys for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan. 


Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lor! Put your hand 


under the camel-bags and tell me what you feel.” 


I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and an- E 


other. 


“ Twenty of em,” said Dravot placidly. “ « Doron ; 
of ’em, and ammunition to correspond, under the ; 


Phirligig: and the mud dolls.” 

“‘ Heaven help you if you are caught eh those 
things ! 1? T said. “ A Martini is worth her weight 
in silver among the Pathans.” 

“Fifteen hundred rupees of capital—every rupee 
we could beg, borrow, or steal—are invested on these — 


ae cies ee 


two camels,” said Dravot. “ We won’t get caught. ’ 


We’re going through the Khaiber with a regular — 


caravan, Who'd touch a poor mad priest?” — 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 89 


“ Have you got everything you want?” I asked, 
overcome with astonishment. 

“ Not yet, but we shall soon. Give usamemento 
of your kindness, Brother. You did me a service 
yesterday, and that time in Marwar. Half my 
Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is.” I 
slipped a small charm compass from my watch-chain 
and handed it up to the priest. 

“ Good-by,” said Dravot, giving me hand cau- 
tiously. “ It’s the last time we'll shake hands with an 
Englishman these many days. Shake hands with him 
Carnehan,” he cried, as the second camel passed 
me. 

Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then 
the camels passed away along the dusty road, and I 
was left alone to wonder. My eye could detect no 
failure in the disguises. The scene in the Serai at- 
tested that they were complete to the native mind. 
There was just the chance, therefore, that Carnehan 
and Dravot would be able to wander through 
Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they 
would find death, certain and awful death. 

Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me 
the news of the day from Peshawar, wound up his 
letter with :—“ There has been much laughter here 
on account of a certain mad priest who is going in 
his estimation to sell petty gauds and insignificant 
trinkets which he ascribes as great charms to H. H. 
the Amir of Bokhara. He passed through Peshawar 
and associated himself to the Second Summer cara- 
van that goes to Kabul. -The merchants are pleased 


90° THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. ee 


mad fellows bring good-fortune.” 
The two, then, were en the Border. I wou 


The wheel of the world swings through. the same 
phases again andagain. Summer passed and winter 
thereafter, and came and passed again. The dai 
paper continued and I with it, and upon the thi 
summer there fell a hot night, a night-issue, and 
strained waiting for something to be telegraph 
from the other side of the world, exactly as h 
happened before. A few great men had died in t. 
past two years, the machines worked with mo 
clatter, and some of the trees in the Office gard 
were a few feet taller. But that was all the 
difference. 

I passed over to the press-room, and went chres 
just such a scene as I have already described. T. 
nervous tension was stronger than it had been two 
years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At 
three o’clock I cried, ‘‘ Print off,” and turned to go, 
when there crept to my chair what was left of 
man. He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk 
between his shoulders, and he moved his feet one 
over the other like a bear. I could hardly s 
whether he walked or crawled—this rag-wrapped, - 
whining cripple who addressed me by name, crying 
that he was come back. “Can you give me 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 91 


drink?” he whimpered. “For the Lord’s sake, 

give me a drink!” 

I went back to the office, the man following with 
groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp. 

_ “Don’t you know me?” he gasped, dropping into 
a chair, and he turned his drawn face, surmounted 
by a shock of gray hair, to the light. 

I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen 
eyebrows that met over the nose in an inch-broad 
black band, but for the life of me I could not tell 
where. 

“T don’t know you,” I said, handing him the 
whisky. ‘What can I do for you?’’ 

- He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in 
spite of the suffocating heat. 

“T’ve come back,” he repeated ; “and I was the 
King of Kafiristan—me and Drayot — crowned 
Kings we was! In this office we settled it—you 
setting there and giving us the books. Iam Peachey 
—Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan, and you’ve been 
setting here ever since—O Lord! ” 

I was more than a little astonished, and expressed 
my feelings accordingly. : 

“It’s true,” said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, 
nursing his feet, which were wrapped in rags. 
“True as gospel. Kings we were, with crowns 
upon our heads—me and Dravot—poor Dan—oh, 
poor, poor Dan, that would never take advice, not 
though I begged of him!” 

“Take the whisky,’ I said, “and take your own 
time. Tell me all you can recollect of everything 


th 
2 ee 


92 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


from beginning to end. You got across the border — 
on your camels, Dravot dressed as a mad priest and 
you his servant. Do you remember that?” | 4 
“T ain't mad—yet, but I shall be that way soon. : 
Of course I remember. Keep looking at me, or 
may be my words will go all to pieces. Keep look- 
ing at me in my eyes and don’t say anything.” 4 
T leaned forward and looked into his face as 
steadily as I could. He dropped one hand ‘upon : 
the table and I grasped it by the wrist. It was” : 
twisted like a bird’s claw, and upon the back was a 
ragged, red, diamond-shaped scar. . 
‘No, don’t look there. Look at me,” said 
Carmehan. 4 
“That comes afterwards, but for the Lord’s sake 
don’t distrack me. We left with that caravan, me 
and Dravot playing all sorts of antics to amuse the 
people we were with. Dravot used to make us 
laugh 1 in the evenings when all the people was cook- . 
ing their dinners—cooking their dinners, and . - 
what did they do then? They lit little fires 
with sparks that went into Dravot’s beard, and we 
all laughed—fit to die. Little red fires Wee was 
going into Dravot’s big red beard—so funny.” 
His eyes left mine and he smiled foolishly. . 
“You went as far as Jagdallak with that cara: 
van,” I said at a venture, “after you had lit those 
fires. To J nets where you turned off to try tay 
get into Kafiristan.” + 
“No, we didn’t neither. What are you talking 
about? We turned off before Jagdallak, because 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 93 


we heard the roads was good. But they wasn’t 
good enough for our twocamels—mine and Dravot’s. 
When we left the caravan, Dravot took off all his 
clothes and mine too, and said we would be hea- 
then, because the Kafirs didn’t allow Mohammedans 
totalktothem. So we dressed betwixt and between, 
and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet 
nor expect to see again. He burned half his beard, 
and slung a sheepskin over his shoulder, and shaved 
his head into patterns. He shaved mine, too, and 
made me wear outrageous things to look like a 
heathen. That wasina most mountaineous country, 
and our camels couldn’t go along any more because 
of the mountains. They were tall and black, and 
coming home I saw them fight like wild goats— 
there are lots of goats in Kafiristan. And these 
mountains, they never keep still, no more than the 
goats. Always fighting they are, and don’t let you 
sleep at night.” 

“Take some more whisky,” I said very slowly. 
“What did you and Daniel Dravot do when the 
camels could go no further because of the rough 
roads that led into Kafiristan ? ” 

“ What did which do? There was a party called 
Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan that was with Dravot. 
Shall I tell you about him? He died out there in 
the cold. Slap from the bridge fell old Peachey, 
turning and twisting in the air like a penny whirli- 
gig that you can sell to the Amir.—No; they was 
two for three ha’pence, those whirligigs, or I am 
much mistaken and woful sore. And then these 


94 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot— 
‘For the Lord’s sake, let’s get out of this before 
our heads are chopped off,’ and with that they killed — 
the camels all among the mountains, not having — : 
anything in particular to eat, but first they took off — 
the boxes with the guns ad the ammunition, , ol 
two men came along driving four mules. Dravot 
up and dances in front of them, sng y “Sell me ( 
four mules.’ Says the first man,—‘ If you are rich — 
enough to buy you are rich erect to rob;’ but : 
before ever he could put his hand to his rote Dra- 
vot breaks his neck over his knee, and the other 
party runs away. So Carnehan loaded the mules — 
with the rifles that was taken off the camels, and — 
together we starts forward into those bitter cold — 
mountaineous parts, and never a road broader than 4 
the back of your hand.” y 
‘He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he 
could remember the nature of the country ee q 
which he had journeyed. ; 
“Tam telling you as straight as I can, but my 
head isn’t as seed as it might be. They en 
nails through it tomake me hear better how Dravo' 
died. The country was mountaineous and the mules” 
were most contrary, and the inhabitants was dis. 
persed and solitary. They went up and up, and 
down and down, and that other party, Carnchan, 
was imploring of Dravot not to sing and whistle so 
loud, for fear of bringing down the tremenjus ava- 
janches. But Dravot says that if a King couldn’ t 
sing it wasn’t worth being King, and whacked the — 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 95 


mules over the rump, and never took no heed for 
ten cold days. We came to a big level valley all - 
among the mountains, and the mules were near 
dead, so we killed them, not having anything in 
special for them or us to eat. We sat upon the 
boxes, and played odd and even with the cartridges 
that was jolted out. 

“ Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down 
that valley, chasing twenty men with bows and 
arrows, and the row wastremenjus. They was fair 
men—fairer than you or me—with yellow hair and 
remarkable well built. Says Dravot, unpacking 
the guns‘ This is the beginning of the business. 
We'll fight for the ten men,’ and with that he fires 
two rifles at the twenty men, and drops one of them 
at two hundred yards from the rock where we was 
sitting. The other men began to run, but Carnehan 
and Dravot sits on the boxes picking them off at 
all ranges, up and down the valley. Then we goes 
up to the ten men that had run across the snow too, 
and they fires a footy little arrow at us. Dravot 
he shoots above their heads and they all falls down 
flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and 
then he lifts them up and shakes hands all round to 
make them friendly like. He calls them and gives 
them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all 
the world as though he was King already. They 
takes the boxes and him across the valley and up 
the hill into a pine wood on the top, where there 
was half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes 
to the biggest—a fellow they call Imbra—and lays 


96 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. — 


a rifle and a cartridge at his feet, rubbing his nose - 
respectful with his own nose, patting him on the — 
head, and saluting in front of it. He, turns round — 
to the men and nods his head, and says,—‘ That’s 
all right. I’m in the know too, and-all these old 
jim-jams are my friends.’ Then heopens his mouth _ 
and points down it, and when the first man brings 
him food, he says—‘No;’ and when the second — 
man brings him food, he says—‘No;’ but when — 
one of the old priests and the yo of tie village 
brings him food, he says—‘ Yes ;’ very haughty, and _ 
eats it slow. That was how iat came to our first S 
village, without any trouble, just as though we had 
tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one — 
of those damned rope-bridges, you see, and you — 
couldn’t expect a man to laugh much wits that.” 

“Take some more whisky and go on,” I said. 
“That was the first village you came into. Hee : 
did you get to be king !” 

“T wasn’t King,” said Carnehan. “ Diasel he 
was the King, and a handsome man he looked with 
the gold crown on his head and all. Him and the 
other party stayed in that village, and every morn 
ing Dravot sat by the side of old Imbra, and the 
people came and worshiped. That was Drayot’s — 
order. Then a lot of men came into the valley, and 
Carnehan and Dravot picks them off with the rifles — 
before they knew where they was, and runs down _ 
into the valley and up again the other side, and finds — 
another village, same as ‘the first one, and the people a 
all falls down flat on fee faces, and Dravot says,— 


* ees 6 ew. 9 — 
Pe a -# ae 

yd eee ta + 
Peet & x 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 97 


‘ Now what is the trouble between you two villages ?’ 
and the people points to a woman, as fair as you or 
me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes her back 
to the first village and counts up the dead—eight 
there was. For each dead man Dravot pours alittle 
- milk on the ground and waves his arms like a whirli- 
gig and ‘ That’s all right,’ says he. Then he and 
Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by the 
arm and walks them down into the valley, and shows 
them how to scratch a line with a spear right down 
the valley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides 
o the line. Then all the people comes down and 
shouts like the devil and all, and Dravot says,— 
‘Go and dig the land, and be fruitful and multiply,’ 
which they did, though they didn’t understand. 
Then we asks the names of things in their lingo— 
bread and water and fire and idols and such, and 
Dravot leads the priest of each village up to the 
idol, and says he must sit there and judge the people, 
and if anything goes wrong he is to be shot. 
“Next week they was all turning up the land in 
the valley as quiet as bees and much prettier, and 
the priests heard all the complaints and told Dravot 
in dumb show what it was about. ‘ That’s just the 
beginning,’ says Dravot. ‘They think we’re Gods.’ 
He and Carnehan picks out twenty good men and 
shows them how to click off a rifle, and form fours, 
and advance in line, and they was very pleased to 
do so, and clever to see the hang of it. Then he 
takes out his pipe and his baccy-pouch and leaves 
one at one village, and one at the other and off we 
7 


98 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


two goes to see what was to be done in the next 
valley. That was all rock, and there was a little 
village there, and Carnehan le -—‘Send’em to the 
old valley to plant,’ and takes ’em there and gives 
’em some land that wasn’t took before. They were 
a poor lot, and we blooded ’em with a kid before 
letting ’em into the new Kingdom. That wastoi im-— 
press the people, and then Gee settled down quiet, © 
and Carnehan went back to Drayot who had got 
into another valley, all snow and ice and most moun. 
taineous. There was no people there and the Army 
got afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goe 
on till he finds some people in a vile and the 
Army explains that unless the people wants to be — 
killed they had better not shoot their little match 
locks; for they had matchlocks. We makes friends a 
with the priest and I stays there.alone with two o: 
the Army, teaching the men how to drill, and a 
thundering big Chief comes across the snow with 
kettledrums and horns twanging, because he heard 
there was a new God kicking about. Carneh. 
sights for the brown of the men half a mile acro 
the snow and wings one of them. Then he sends 
message to the Chief that, unless he wished to | 
killed, he must come and shake hands with me and 
leave his arms behind. The Chief comes alone first, 
and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls his 
arms about, same as Dravot used, and very mu 
surprised that Chief was, and Gree my eyebrow 
Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief, and asks 
him in dumb show if he had an enemy he hate 


re eas PEG & S 
fet en eb. ae ee 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 99 


‘T have,’ says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds out 
the pick of his men, and sets the two of the Army 


- to show them drill and at the end of two weeks the 


men can maneuver about as well as Volunteers. So 
he marches with the Chief to a great big plain on 
the top of a mountain, and the Chief’s men rushes 
into a village and takes it; we three Martinis firing 
into the brown of the enemy. So we took that 
village too, and I gives the Chiefa rag from my 
coat and says, ‘Occupy till 1 come;’ which was 
scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me and 
the Army was eighteen hundred yards away, I drops 
a bullet near him standing on the snow, and all the 
- people falls flat on their faces. Then I sendsa letter 
to Dravot, wherever he be by land or by sea.” 

At the risk of throwing the creature out of train 
I interrupted,—“ How could you writea letter up 
yonder ?”’ 

“The letter ?—Oh!—The letter! Keep looking 
at me between the eyes, please. It was astring-talk 
letter, that we’d learned the way of it from a blind 
beopar i in the Punjab.” 

I remember that there had once come to the 
office a blind man with a knotted twig and a piece 
of string which he wound round the twig according 
to some cipher of his own. He could, after the 
lapse of days or hours, repeat the sentence which he 
had reeled up. He had reduced the alphabet to 
eleven primitive sounds ; and tried to teach me his 
method, but failed. 

“JY sent that letter to Dravot,” said Carnehan ; 


100 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


“and told him to come back because this Kingdom — 
was growing too big for me to handle, and then I 
struck for the first valley, to see how the priests were - 
working. They called the village we took slong @ 
with the Chief, Bashkai, and the first village we took, — 
Er-Heb. The priests at Er-Heb was doing all right, : 
but they had a lot of pending cases about land to — ; 
show me, and some men from another village had 
been firing arrows at night. I went out and looked 
for that village and fired four rounds atitfrom a 
thousand yards. That used all the cartridgesI cared 
to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who had been — 

away two or three months, and I kept my people a 
quiet. os 
“One morning I heard the devil’s own noise of 

drums and horns, and Dan Dravot marches down 

the hill with his Army and atailofhundredsof men, 

and,—which was the most amazing—a great gold ae 

crown on his head. ‘My Gord, Carnehan, says 
Daniel, ‘ this is a tremenjus fies and we’ve got 
the whole country as far as it’s worth having. Iam 
the son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and-you’re — 
my younger brotherandaGodtoo! It’s ihe biggest 
thing we’veever seen. D’ve been marching and fight- 
ing for six weeks with the Army, and every footy — 
little village for fifty miles has come in rejoiceful; 
and more than that, Pve got the key of the whole ~ 
show, as you'll see, and Pve got a crown for you! © 
I told ’em to maketwo of ’em ata placecalled Shu, 
where the gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton. aa 
Gold I’ve seen and turquoise I’ve kicked out of the a 


Ay Comet ae Wt 2h 2 5 
Sy may: ty 
ved 4 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 101 


cliffs, and there’s garnets in the sands of the river, 
and here’s a chunk of amber that a man brought me. 
Call up all the priests and, here, take your crown.’ 

“One of the men opens a black hair bag and I 
slips the crown on. It was too small and too heavy, 
but I woreit for the glory. Hammered gold it was 
—five pound weight, like a hoop of a barrel. 

““¢ Peachey,’ says Dravot, ‘ we don’t want to fight 
nomore. The Craft’s the trick so help me!’ and 
he brings forward that same Chief that I left at 
Bashkai— Billy Fish we called him afterwards, be- 
cause he was so like Billy Fish that drove the big 
tank-engine at Mach on the Bolan in the old days. 
‘Shake hands with him,’ says Dravot, and I shook 
hands and nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave me 
the Grip. Isaid nothing, but tried him with the 
Fellow Craft Grip. He answers, all right, and I 
tried the Master’s Grip, but that was aslip. ‘A 
Fellow Craft he is!’ I says to Dan. ‘ Does he 
know the word?’ ‘He does,’ says Dan, ‘and all 
the priests know. It’s a miracle! The Chiefs and 
the priests can work a Fellow Craft Lodge in a way 
that’s very like ours, and they’ve cut the marks on 
the rocks, but they don’t know the Third Degree, 
and they've come to find out. It’s Gord’s Truth. 
Tve known these long years that the Afghans knew 
up to the Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle. 
A God and a Grand-Master of the Craft am I, and 
a Lodge in the Third Degree I will open, and we'll 
raise the head priests and the Chiefs of the villages.’ 

“<Tt’s against all the law,’ I says, ‘holding a 


102 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. oo 


Lodge without warrant from any one; and we never _ 
held office in any Lodge.’ s 
“<Tt?s a master-stroke of woliey says Dravot. 
‘It means running the country as easy as a four- 
wheeled bogy on a down grade. We can’t stop to 
inquire now, or they’ll turn against us. Dve forty — 
Chiefs at my heel, and passed and raised according — 
to their merit they shall be. Billet these men on 
the villages and see that we runup a Lodgeof some 
kind. The temple of Imbra will do for the Lodge 
room. The women must make apronsas you show 
them. [ll pou levee of Chiefs to-night and Lodge 
to morrow.’ oe 
“T was fair run off my legs, but I wasn’t such a 
fool as not to see what a pull this Craft business 
gave us. I showed the priests’ families how to _ 
make aprons of the degrees, but for Dravot’s apron ~ 
the blue border and marks was made of turquoise _ 
lumps on white hide, not cloth. We took a great 
square stone in the temple for the Master’s chair, 
and little stones for the officers’ chairs, and painted — 
the black pavement with white squares, and did 
what we could to make things regular. = 
“ At the levee which was hela that night on the — 
hillside with big bonfires, Dravot gives out that him g 
and me were Gods and sons of Alexander, and Past , 
-Grand-Masters in the Craft, and was come to make 
Kafiristan a country where every man should eat in @ 
peace and drink in quiet, and specially obey us. — 
- Then the Chiefs come round to shake hands, and 
_ they was so hairy and white and fair it was “just - 


BS AS Se Se aces, | 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 103 


shaking hands with old friends. We gave them 
names according as they was like men we had known 
in India—Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky Ker- 
gan that was Bazar-master when I was at Mhow, 
and so on and so on. 

“The most amazing miracle was at Lodge next 
night. One of the old priests was watching us 
continuous, and I felt uneasy, for I knew we’d have 
to fudge the Ritual, and I didn’t know what the 
men knew. The old priest was a stranger come in 
from beyond the village of Bashkai. The minute 
Dravot puts on the Master’s #pron that the girls 
had made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and 
a howl, and tries to overturn the stone that Dravot 
was sitting on. ‘It’s all up now, I says. ‘That 
comes of meddling with the Craft without war- 
rant!’ Dravot never winked an eye, not when ten 
priests took and tilted over the Grand-Master’s chair 
—which was to say the stone of Imbra. The priest 
begins rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away the 
black dirt, and presently he shows all the other priests 
the Master’s Mark, same as was on Dravot’s apron, 
cut into the stone. Not even the priests of the 
temple of Imbra knew it was there. The old chap 
falls flat on his face at Dravot’s feet and kisses ’em. 
‘Luck again,’ says Dravot, across the Lodge to me, 
‘they say it’s the missing Mark that no one could 
understand the why of. We’re more than safe 
now.’ Then he bangs the butt of his gun fora gavel 
and says :—‘ By virtue of the authority vested in 
me by my own right hand and the help of Peachey, 


104 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


I declare myself Grand-Master of all Freemasonry in 
Kafiristan in this the Mother Lodge o’ the country, 
and King of Kafiristan equally with Peachey!* <At 
that he puts on his crown and I puts on mine—I 
was doing Senior Warden—and we opens the Lodge 
in most ample form. It was a amazing miracle! 
The priests moved in Lodge through the first two 
degrees almost without telling, as if the memory 
was coming back to them. After that, Peachey 
and Dravot raised such as was worthy—high priests 
and Chiefs of far-off villages. Bully Fish was the 
first, and I can tell you we scared the soul out of 
him. It was not in any way according to Ritual, 
but it served our turn. We didn’t raise more than 
ten of the biggest men because we didn’t want to 
make the Degree common. And they was clamor- 
ing to be raised. | 

‘““¢In another six months,’ says Dravot, ‘ we'll 
hold another Communication and see how you are 
working.’ Then he asks them about their villages, 
and learns that they was fighting one against the 


other and were fair sick and tired of it. And when : 


they wasn’t doing that they was fighting with the 
Mohammedans. ‘ You can fight those when they 
come into our country,’ says Dravot. ‘Tell off every 


tenth man of your tribes for a Frontier guard, and — 


send two hundred at a time to this valley to be 
drilled. Nobody is going to be shot or speared any 
more so long as he does well, and I know that you 
won’t cheat me because you're white people—sons 


‘of Alexander—and not like common, black Moham-— 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 105 


medans. You are my people and by God,’ says he, 
running off into English at the end—‘Tll makea 
damned fine Nation of you, or I'll die in the mak- 
ing?’ 

“ I can’t tell all we did for the next six months be- 
cause Dravot did a lot I couldn’t see the hang of, and 
he learned their lingo in a way I never could. My 
work was to help the people plow, and now and 
again go out with some of the Army and see what 
the other villages were doing, and make ’em throw 
rope-bridges across the ravines which cut up the 
country horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but 
when he walked up and down in the pine wood, 
pulling that bloody red beard of his with both fists, 
I knew he was thinking plans I could not advise him 
about, and I just waited for orders. 

“ But Dravot never showed me disrespect before 
the people. They were afraid of me and the Army, 
but they loved Dan. He was the best of friends 
_ with the priests and the Chiefs; but any one could 
come across the hills with a complaint and Dravot 
would hear him out fair, and call four priests to- 
gether and say what was to be done. He used to — 
call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan 
from Shu, and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum— 
it was like enough to his real name—and hold coun- 
cils with ’em when there was any fighting to be 
done in small villages. That was his Council of 
War, and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, 
and Madora was his Privy Council. Between the 
lot of ’em they sent me, with forty men and twenty 


106 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


rifles, and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the 


Ghorband country to buy those hand-made Martini 


rifles that come out of the Amir’s work-shops at 
Kabul, from one of the Amir’s Herati regiments 


that Gould have sold the se teeth out of their — 


mouths for turquoises. 
“T stayed in Ghorband a ache and gave the 


Governor there the pick of my baskets for hush- — 
money, and bribed the Colonel of the regimentsome _ 


more, and, between the two and the tribes-people 
we got more than a hundred hand-made Martinis, a 
hundred good Kohat Jezails that'll throw to six 


hundred yards, and forty man-loads of very bad — 


ammunition for the rifles. I came back with what 


I had, and distributed ’em among the men that the 
Chiefs sent in to me to drill. Dravot was too busy 
to attend to those things, but the old Army that 
we first made helped me, and we turned out five 
hundred men that could drill, and two hundred that 
knew how to hold arms pretty straight. Even those 


cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to © 


them. Dravot talked big about powder-shops and 


factories, walking up and down in the pine wood — 


when the winter was coming on. 
“¢T won’t make a Nation,’ says he. ‘Tll make 


an Empire! These men aren’t niggers; they’re © 


English! Look at their eyes—look at their 
mouths. Look at the way they stand up. They 
sit on chairs in their own houses. They’re the Lost 


Tribes, or something like it, and they’ve grown to 


be English. Ill take a census in the spring if the 


% nee i yar ae oe = 
LO EE CES Poet Oe Peet SP BT) EPR RG aN eel RRO 


re 
1 a Re Can Se 
ap ee 5 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 107 


priests don’t get frightened. There must be a fair 
two million of ’em in these hills. The villages are 
full o’ little children. Two million people—two 
hundred and fifty thousand fighting men—-and all 
English! They only want the rifles and a little 
drilling. Two hundred and fifty thousand men, 
ready to cut inon Russia’s right flank when she 
tries for India! Peachey, man,’ he says chewing 
his beard in great hunks, ‘ we shall be Emperors— 
Emperors of the Earth! Rajah Brooke will bea 
suckling to us. [ll treat with the Viceroy on equal 
terms. Ill ask him to send me twelve picked Eng- 
lish—twelve that I know of—to help us govern - 
a bit. There’s Mackray, Sergeant pensioner at 
Segowli—many’s the good dinner he’s given me, and 
his wife a pair of trousers. There’s Donkin, the 
Warder of Tounghoo Jail; there’s hundreds that I 
could lay my hand on if I was in India. The 
Viceroy shalldo it forme. Tl send aman through 
in the spring for those men, and J’ll write for a 
dispensation from the Grand Lodge for what Ive 
done as Grand-Master. That—and all the Sniders 
that’ll be thrown out when the native troops in 
India take up the Martini. They’ll be worn 
smooth, but they’ll do for fighting in these hills. 
Twelve English, a hundred thousand Sniders run 
through the Amir’s country in driblets—I’d be con- 
tent with twenty thousand in one year—and we'd 
be an Empire. When everything was ship-shape, 
Vd hand over the crown—this crown I’m wearing 
now—to Queen Victoria on my knees, and she’d 


108 | THE maN wHo WOULD BE ang 


say :— Rise up, Sir Daniel Dravot.” Oh, it’s big | 
It’s big, I tell you! But there’s so much to be done | 
in every place—Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and every 
where else.’ oy 
“* What is it?’ I says. ‘There are no nore 
men coming in to be drilled this autumn. Look at — 
those fat, black clouds. They’re bringing - the - x 
. 


snow.’ 

“Tt isn’t that,’ says Daniel, putting his hand — 
very hard on my shoulder ; cand I don’t wish to — 
say anything that’s against you, for no other living 
man would have followed me and made me what I — 
am as you have done. You're a first-class Com- 
mander-in-Chief, and the people know you; but— 
it’s a big country, and somehow you can’t help me, 
Peachey, in the way I want to be helped.’ a 

“Go to your blasted priests, then!’ I said, and — 
I was sorry when I made that remark, but it did — 
hurt me sore to find Daniel talking so superior — 
when I’d drilled all the men, and done all he told — 
me. 2 oo 
“< Don’t let’s quarrel, Peachey,’ says Daniel with- — 
out cursing. ‘You’re a King too, and the half of — 
this Kingdom is yours; but can’t you see, Peachey, — 
we want cleverer men than us now—three or four | 
of ’em, that we can scatter about for our Deputies. % 
It’s a Hgeons great State, and I can’t always tell — 
the right thing to do, and I haven’t time for allI ~ 
want todo, and here’s the winter coming on and 
all’ He put half his beard into his mouth, and it — | 
_ was as red as the gold of his crown. = 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 109 


«Dm sorry, Daniel, says I. ‘I’ve done all I 


. ~ could. I’ve drilled the men and shown the people 


- al 
oH; 
7 oe 


how to stack their oats better; and ve brought in 
those tinware rifles from Ghorband—but I know 
what you’re driving at. I take it Kings always feel 
oppressed that way.’ 

“¢ There’s another thing too,’ says Dravot, walk- 
ing up and down. ‘The winter’s coming and these 
people won’t be giving much trouble. and if they 
do we can’t move about. I want a wife.’ 

“<«For God’s sake leave the women alone!’ I 
says. ‘We've both got all the work we can, 
though I am a fool. Remember the Contrack, and 
keep clear o’ women.’ 

“<¢The Contrack only lasted till such time as we 
was Kings; and Kings we have been these months 
past,’ says Dravot, weighing his crown in his hand. 
‘You go get a wife too, Peachey—a nice, strappin’, 
plump girl that'll keep you warm in the winter. 


_They’re prettier than English girls, and we can take 


the pick of ’em. Boil ’em once or twice in hot 
water and they’ll come as fair as chicken and 
ham.’ 

“<«Don’t tempt me!’ Isays. ‘I will not have 
any dealings with a woman not till we are a dam’ 
side more settled than we are now. I’ve been 


doing the work o’ two men, and you’ve been doing 


the work o’ three. Let’s lie off a bit, and see if we 

can get some better tobacco from Afghan country 

and run in some good liquor; but no women.’ 
“<Who’s talking 0’ women?’ says Dravot. ‘I 


RP NT 


110 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


said wife—a Queen to breed a King’s son for the 
King. A Queen out of the strongest tribe, that'll 
make them your blood-brothers, and that’ll lie by 
your side and tell you all the people thinks about 
you and their own affairs. That’s what I want.’ 
“*Do you remember that Bengali woman I kept 
at Mogul Serai when I was a platelayer?’ says I. 


‘A fat lot o’ good she was to me. She taught me 


the lingo and one or two other things; but what 
happened? She ranaway with the Station Master’s 
servant and half my month’s pay. Then she turned 
up at Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste, and had 
the impidence to say I was her husband—all among 
the drivers in the running-shed !’ 

““ «We've done with that,’ says Dravot. ‘These 
women are whiter than you or me, and a Queen I 
will have for the winter months.’ 


“< For the last time o’ asking, Dan, do not,’ I says. 


‘It’llonly bring us harm. The Biblesays that Kings 
ain’t to waste their strength on women, ’specially 
when they’ve got a new raw Kingdom to work over. 

“¢For the last time of answering I will,’ said 
Dravot, and he went away through the pine-trees 
looking like a big red devil. The low sun hit his 
crown and beard on one side, and the two blazed 
like hot coals. : es, 

“But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan 


thought. He put it before the Council, and there 


was no answer till Billy Fish said that he’d better 
ask the girls. Dravot damned them all round. 


‘What’s wrong with me?’ he shouts, standing by 


See hr ee BN tee 


yD. 
$ 
<a 
2 
rae 
te 


~ 
3 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 111 


the idol Imbra. ‘Am Ia dog or am I not enough 
of a man for your wenches? Haven’t I put the 
shadow of my hand over this country ?, Who stopped 
the last Afghan raid?’ It wasme really, but Dravot 
was too angry to remember. ‘Who bought your 
guns? Who repaired the bridges? Who’s the 
Grand-Master of the sign cut in the stone?’ and he 
thumped his hand on the block that he used to sit 
on in Lodge, and at Council, which opened like Lodge 
always. Billy Fish said nothing and no more did 
the others. ‘Keep your hair on, Dan, said I; ‘and 
_ask the girls. That’s how it’s done at Home, and 
these people are quite English.’ . 

“<¢The marriage of the King is a matter of State,’ 
says Dan, in a white-hot rage, for he could feel, I 
hope, that he was going against his better mind. He 
walked out of the Council-room, and the others sat 
still looking at the ground. 

“<«Billy Fish, says I to the Chief of Bashkai, 
‘what’s the difficulty here? <A straight answer to 
a truefriend.’ ‘ You know,’ says Billy Fish. ‘How 
shoulda man tell you who know everything? How 
can daughters of men marry Gods or Devils? It’s 
not proper.’ 

“T remember something like that in the Bible; 
but if, after seeing us as long as they had, they still 
believed we were Gods, it wasn’t forme to undeceive 
them. 

“¢* A God can do anything,’ saysI. “Ifthe King 
is fond of a girl he’ll not let her die.’ ‘ She’ll have 
to,’ said Billy Fish. ‘There are all sorts of Gods 


112 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


and Devils in these mountains, and now and again 
a girl marries one of them and isn’t seen any more. 
Besides, you. two know the Mark cut in the stone. 
Only the Gods know that. We thought you were 
men till you showed the sign of the Master.’ | 

“J wished then that we had explained about the 
loss of the genuine secrets of a Master-Mason at the 
first go off: but Isaidnothing. All that night there 
was a blowing of horns in a little dark temple haltf- 
way down the hill, and I heard a girl crying fit to 
die. One of the priests told us that she was being — 
prepared to marry the King. 

“‘* T’ll have no nonsense of that kind, says Dan. 
‘I don’t want to interfere with your customs, but 
Plltake my own wife. ‘The girl’s a little bit afraid,’ 
says the priest.. ‘She thinks she’s going to die, and 
they are a-heartening of her up down in the temple.’ 

“ « Hearten her very tender, then,’ says Dravot, 
‘or Vll hearten you with the butt of a gun so that 
you’ll never want to be heartened again.’ Helicked 
his lips, did Dan, and stayed up walking about more ~ 
than half the night, thinking of the wife that he was 
going to get in the morning. I wasn’t any means 


comfortable, for I knew that dealings with a woman — 


in foreign parts, though you was a crowned King 
twenty times over, could not butbe risky. Igotup — 
very early in the cone while Dravot was asleep, 
and I saw the priests talking together in whispers, 
and the Chiefs talking together too, and they looked 
at me out of the corners of their eyes. oy 

“< What is up, Fish?” I says to the Bashkai man, — 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 113 


who was wrapped up in his furs and looking splendid 
_ to behold. 

“<T can’t rightly say, says he; ‘but if you can 
induce the King to drop all this nonsense about 
“marriage, you'll be doing him and me and yourself 
a great service.’ 

«<That I do believe,’ says I. ‘But sure, you 
know, Billy, as well as me, having fought against 
and for us, that the King and me are nothing more 
than two of the finest men that God Almighty ever 
made. Nothing more, I do assure you.’ 

“*That may be, says Billy Fish, ‘and yet I 
should be sorry if it was.’ He sinks his head upon 
his great fur cloak for a minute and thinks. ‘ King,’ 
says he, ‘be you man or God or Devil, I'll stick by 
you to-day. I have twenty of my men with me, 
and they will follow me. We'll go to Bashkai until 
the storm blows over.’ 

“A little snow had fallen in the night, and every- 
thing was white except the greasy fat clouds that 
blew down and down from the north. Dravot 
came out with his crown on his head, swinging his 
arms and stamping his feet, and icckine more 
pleased than Punch. 

“¢For the last time, drop it, Dan? says I ina 
whisper. ‘ Billy Fish here says that there will be a 
row.’ 

“¢ A row among my people!’ says Dravot. ‘Not 
much. Peachey, you’re a fool not to get a wife 
too. Where’s the girl?’ says he with a voice as 
ce as the braying of a jackass. ‘ Call up all the 


114 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


Chiefs and priests, and let the Emperor see if his : 


wife suits him.’ 

“ There was no need to callany one. They were 
all there leaning on their guns and spears round the 
clearing in the center of the pine wood. A deputa- 
tion of priests went down to the little temple to 
bring up the girl, and the horns blew up fit to wake 
the dead. Billy Fish saunters round and gets as 
close to Daniel as he could, and behind him stood 
his twenty men with matchlocks. Not a man of 
them under six feet.. I was next to Dravot, and 
behind me was twenty men of the regular Army. 
Up comes the girl, and a strapping wench she was, 


covered with silver and turquoises, but white as _ 


death, and looking back every minute at the priests. 

““¢ She'll do,’ said Dan, looking her over. ‘ What’s 
to be afraid of, lass? Come and kiss me.’ He puts 
his arm round her. She shuts her eyes, give a bit 
of a squeak, and down goes her face in the side of 
Dan’s flaming red beard. 

“<The slut’s bitten me!’ says he, clapping his 
hand to his neck, and, sure enough, his hand was red 
with blood. Billy Fish and two of his matchlock- 
men catches hold of Dan by the shoulders and drags 
him into the Bashkai lot, while the priests howls in 


their lingo,— Neither God nor Devil, but a man!’ 


I was all taken aback, for a priest cut at me in 
front, and the Army behind began firing into the 
Bashkai men. ; . 

“*God A-mighty!’ says Dan. ‘What is the 
meaning o’ this?’ : 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 115 


“¢Come back! Come away!’ says Billy Fish, 
‘Ruin and Mutiny is the matter. We'll break for 
Bashkai if we can.’ 

“T tried to give some sort of orders to my men— 
the men o’ ‘the regular Army—but it was no use, so 
I fired into the brown of ’em with an English Mar- 
tini and drilled three beggars in a line. The valley 
was full of shouting, howling creatures, and every 
soul was shrieking, ‘Not a God nor a Devil, but 
onlyaman!’ The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy 
Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks wasn’t 
half as good as the Kabul breech-loaders, and four 
of them dropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull, 
for he was very wrathy; and Billy Fish had a ad 
‘job to prevent him running out at the crowd. 

“* We can’t stand,’ says Billy Fish. ‘ Makearun 
for it down the valley! The whole place is against 
us. The matchlock-men ran, and we went down 
the valley in spite of Dravot’s protestations. He 
was swearing horribly and crying out that he was a 
King. The priests rolled great stones on us, and 
the regular Army fired hard, and there wasn’t more 
than six men, not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and 
Me, that came down to the bottom of the valley 
alive. 

“ Then they stopped firing and the horns in the 
temple blew again. ‘Come away—for Gord’s sake 
come away!’ says Billy Fish. ‘They’ll send run- 
ners out to all the villages before ever we get to 
Bashkai. I can ee you there, but I can’t do 
anything now.’ 


116 ‘THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 


“My own notion is that Dan began to vo ‘mad in 
his head from that hour. He stared up and down 
like a stuck pig. Then he was all for walking back — 
alone and killing the priests with his bare hands; 
which he could have done. ‘An Emperor am I,’ . 
gays Daniel, ‘and next year I shall bea Knight of 

the Queen.’ | 
«All right, Dan,’ says 1; ‘but come along now : 
while there’s time.’ : : 

“<Tt’s your fault,’ says he, ‘for not ooking after 
your Army better. There was mutiny in the midst, 
and you didn’t know—you damned engine-driving, — 
plate-laying, missionary’s-pass-hunting hound!’ He _ 
sat upon a rock and called me every foul name — 
he could lay tongue to. 1 was too heart-sick to: — 
care, though it was all his foonetn that beouete = 
the smash. . 

“Pm: Sorry, Dan,’ says I, but thers NO ac- = 
counting for natives. This be is our Fifty- — 
Seven. ne we'll make something ont of it yet, = 
when we’ve got to Bashkal’ — 

“<¢Tet’s get to Bashkai, then,’ says Dan, ‘and, by 
God, when I come back here again [ll ce the | 
valley so there isn’t a bug in a blanket left!’ 

* We walked all that fe and all that iene Dan - 
was stumping up and down on the snow, chewing 
his beard and muttering to himself. 

“<«There’s no hope o’ getting clear,’ said Billy 
Fish. ‘The priests will have sent runners to the vil. 
Jages to say that you are only men. Why didn't 
you stick on as Gods till things was more settled? 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 117 


Tm a dead man,’ says Billy Fish, and he throws him- 
self down on thesnow and begins to pray to his Gods. 

** Next morning we was in a cruel bad country— 
all up and down, no level ground at all, and no food 
either. The six Bashkai men looked at Billy Fish 
hungry-wise as if they wanted to ask something, but 
they said never a word: At noon we camo to the 
top of a flat mountain all covered with snow, and 
when we climbed up into it, behold, there was an 
Army in position waiting in the middle! 

“¢ The runners have been very quick,’ says Billy 
Fish, with a little bit ofalaugh. ‘They are waiting 
for us.’ 

“Three or four men began to fire from the enemy’s 
side, and a chance shot took Daniel in the calf of the 
leg. That brought him to his senses. He looks 
across the snow at the Army, and sees the rifles that 
we had brought into the country. 

“We're done for,’ says he. ‘They are English- 
men, these people,—and it’s my blasted nonsense 
that has brought you to this. Get back, Billy Fish, 
and take your men away; you've done what you 
could, and now cut for it. Carnehan,’ says he, 
‘shake hands with me and go along with Billy. 
Maybe they won’t kill you. J’ll go and meet ’em 


- alone. It’sme that didit. Me, the King!’ 


“*Go!’ says I. ‘Goto Hell, Dan. T’m with you 
here. Billy Fish, you clear out, and we two will 
meet those folk.’ 

“<’m a Chief,’ says Billy Fish, quite quiet. ‘I 
stay with you. My men can go,’ 


118 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. — 


“The Bashkai fellows didn’t wait for a second 
word but ran off, and Dan and Me and Billy Fish 
walked across to where the drums were drumming 
and the horns were horning. It was cold—awful 
cold. ve got that cold in the back of ee head 
now. ‘There’s a lump of it there.” 

The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two ee 
sene lamps were blazing in the office, and the per- 
spiration poured down my face and splashed on the 
blotter as I leaned forward. Carnehan was shiver- 
ing, and [ feared that his mind might go. I wiped 


my face, took afresh grip of the piteously mangled — 


hands, and said :—‘‘ What happened after that ¢ ” 
The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the 

clear current. 
“What was you pleased to say ?”’ whined Carnehan 

“They took them without any sound. Not a little 


whisper all along the snow, not though the King ~ 


knocked down the first man that set hand on him— 


not though old Peachey fired his last cartridge into 4 


the brown of ’em. Not a single solitary sound did 


those swines make. They just closed up tight, andl 
tell you their furs stunk. There was a man called _ 
Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and they ‘cut his 
throat, ae then and there, like a pies and the King 


_kicks up the bloody snow and says :—‘ We’ve had a 
dashed fine run for our money. What’s coming 


next?’ But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell 4 
you, Sir, in confidence as betwixt two friends, he 
lost his head, Sir. No, he didn’t neither. The King 
lost his head, so he did, all along o’ one of those — 


\ 


y pbs cei ae les ean oa oa i wr 


do ot Sh te re le a 


i a ee - Shak ae, ee = pa 
RN ae, Ne De EET, Oe OL Sen PRIOR Re i Fy Fs 


p 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. 119 


cunning rope-bridges. Kindly let me have the paper- 
cutter, Sir. It tilted this way. They marched him — 
amile across that snow to a rope-bridge over a ravine 
with a river at the bottom. You may have seen 
such. They prodded him behind likeanox. ‘Damn 
your eyes!’ says the King. ‘ D’you suppose I can’t 
die like a gentleman?’ He turns to Peachey— 
Peachey that was crying likea child. ‘I’ve brought 
you to this, Peachey,’ says he. ‘ Brought you out of 
your happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where you 
was late Commander-in-Chief of the Emperor’s 
forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey.’ ‘Ido,’ says 
Peachey. ‘Fully and freely doI forgive you, Dan.’ 
‘Shake hands, Peachey,’ says he. ‘I?m going now.’ 
Out he goes, looking neither right nor left, and when 
he was plumb in the middle of those dizzy dancing 
ropes, ‘ Cut, you beggars,’ he shouts; and. they cut, 
and old Dan fell, turning round and round and round, 
twenty thousand miles, for he took half an hour to 
fall till he struck the water, and I could see his body 
caught on a rock with the gold crown close beside. 

* But do you know what they did to Peachey be- 
tween two pine trees? They crucified him, Sir, as 
Peachy’s hand will show. They used wooden pegs 
for his hands and his feet; and he didn’t die. He 
hung there and screamed, and they took him down 
next day, and said it was a miracle that he wasn’t 
dead. They took him down—poor old Peachey that 
hadn’t done them any harm—that hadn’t done them 
Bye ahs eee 

He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping 


120 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. . 


his eyes with ‘ie. back of his soared hands and : 
moaning like a child for some ten minutes, — | 

“They was cruel enough to feed him ‘up in the 
temple, because they said he was more of a God than 
old Daniel that was a man. Then they turned him — 
out on the snow, and told him to go home, and : 
Peachey came home in about a year, begging along — 
the roads quite safe ; for Daniel Dravot he walked be. — 
fore and said :— Game along, Peachey. It’s a bigs 
thing we’re doing.’ The mountains they danced at _ 
a and the mountains they tried to fall on Peach- — 
ey’s head, but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey . 
came along bent double. He never let go of Dan’s — 
hand, and he never let go of Dan’s head. They 
gave it to him as a present in the temple, to remind 
him not to come again, and though the crown was 
pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never would 
Peachey sell the same. You knew Dravot, Sir! 
You knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot! Lo 
at him now!” | 

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his con 
waist; brought outa black horsehair bag embroid- 
ered ay silver thread ; and shook therefrom on t 
my table—the dried, withorct head of Daniel Dr 
vot! The morning sun that had long been paling 
the lamps struck the red beard and blind sunken 
eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studd 
with raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed Le 
on the battered temples. 

“ ‘You behold now,” said Carnehan, “ the tee 
in his habit as he lived—the King of Kafiristan wi 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING. Tt 


his crown upon his head. Poorold Daniel that was 
amonarch once!” 

_ I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, 
I recognized the head of the man of Marwar Junc- 
tion. Carnehan rose to go. I attempted to stop 
him. He was not fit to walk abroad. ‘Let me 
take away the whisky, and give mea little money,” 
he gasped. “I was a King once. Ill go to the 
Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the Poor- 
house till I get my health. No, thank you, I can’t 
wait till you get a carriage for me. I’ve urgent. 
private affairs—in the south—at Marwar.” 

‘He shambled out of the office and departed in 
the direction of the Deputy Commissioner’s house. 
That day at noon I had occasion to go down the 
blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawl- 
ing along the white dust of the roadside, his hat in 
his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion of 
street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in 
sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the 
houses. And he sang through his nose, turning his 
head from right to left :— 


“ The Son of Man goes forth to war, 
A golden crown to gain ; 
His blood-red banner streams afar— 
Who follows in his train?” 


I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch 
into my carriage and drove him off to the nearest 
missionary for eventual transfer to the Asylum. 
He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me 


122 THE MAN WHO WOULD "BE KING. ue 


whom he did not in the least recognize, and i left. 
him singing it to the missionary. : 

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the — 
- Superintendent of the Asylum. ie 

“ He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. re 
died early yesterday morning,” said the Superintend- — 
ent. “Is it true that he was half an hour bare- 
headed in the sun at midday ? ” 


“Yes,” said I, “ but do you happen te know ifhe 


had oe upon him by any chance when he 
died ?” 
“Not to my knowledge,” said the Suporintend- ‘ 
ent. : 
And there the matter rests, 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 


SSS 


‘¢ Ag I came through the Desert thus it was— 
As I came through the Desert.” 
The City of Dreadful Night. 


SoMEWHERE in the Other World, where there are 
books and pictures and plays and shop-windows to 
look at, and thousands of men who spend their lives 
in building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes 
real stories about the real insides of people; .and 
his name is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will insist 
upon treating his ghosts—he has published half a 
- workshopful of them—with levity. He makes his 
ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases, flirt 
outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat 
anything, from a Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, 
with levity; but you must behave reverently to- 
wards a ghost, and particularly an Indian one. 

There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form 
of fat, cold, pobby corpses, and hide in trees near 
the roadside till a traveler passes. Then they drop 
upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible 
ghosts of women who have died in child-bed: These 
wander along the pathways at dusk, or hide in the 


124 MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 


crops near a village, and call seductively. But to 
answer their call is death in this world and the next. 
Their feet are turned backwards that all sober men 
may recognize them. There are ghosts of little 
children who have been thrown into wells. These 
haunt well-curbs and the fringes of jungles, and 
wail under the stars, or catch women by the wrist 
and beg to be taken up and carried. ‘These and the 
corpse-ghosts, however, are only vernacular articles 
and do not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has yet 
been authentically reported to have frightened an 
Englishman; but many English ghosts have scared. 
the life out of both white and black. 
Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. Thoré : 
are said to be two at Simla, not counting the woman — 
who blows the bellows at Syree dak-bungalow on 
the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of a 
very lively Taine? ; a White Lady is supposed to do. 
night-watchman round a house in Lahore; Dalhousie 
says that one of her houses “repeats” on autumn 
evenings all the incidents of a horrible horse-and-prec 
ipice accident ; Murree has a merry ghost, and, now 
that she has been swept by cholera, will have room 
fora sorrowful one; there are Officers’ Quarters i 
Mian Mir whose doors open without reason, and 
whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with the 
heat of June but with the weight of Invisibles who 
come to lounge in the chairs; Peshawar possesses” 
houses that none will willingly rent; and there is 
something—not fever—wrong with a big bungalow 
in Allahabad. The older Provinces simply bristle 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 125 


with haunted houses, and march phantom armies 
along their main thoroughfares. 

Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk 
Road have handy little cemeteries in their compound 
—witnesses to the “changes and chances of this 
mortal life” in the days when men drove from 
Calcutta to the Northwest. These bungalows are 
objectionable places to put up in. They are gener- 
ally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah is 
as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters 
senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In 
both moods he is useless. If you get angry with 
him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these 
thirty years, and says that when he was in. that 
Sahib’s service not a khansamah in the Province 
could touch him. Then he jabbers and mows and 
trembles and fidgets among the dishes and you re- 
pent of your irritation. 

In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to 
be found, and when found, they should be made a 
note of. Not long ago it was my business to live 
in dak-bungalows. I never inhabited the same 
house for three nights running, and grew to be 
_ learned in the breed. I lived in Government-built 
ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an in- 
ventory of the furniture posted in every room, and 
an excited snake at the threshold to give welcome. 
I lived in “ converted ” ones—old houses officiating 
as dak-bungalows—where nothing was in its proper 
place and there wasn’t even a fowl for dinner. I 
lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew 


126 MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 


through open-work marble tracery just as uncom. — > 


fortably as through a broken pane. I lived in dak- 


bungalows where the last entry in the visitors’ book = 
was fifteen months old, and where they slashed off 


the curry-kid’s head with a sword. It was my 
good-luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober 
traveling missionaries and deserters flying from 


British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw > 


whisky bottles at all who passed; and my still 


greater good-fortune just toescape amaternity case. _ 


Seeing that a fair proportion of the tragedy of 
our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, I 
wondered that [had met no ghosts. A ghost that 
would voluntarily hang about a dak-bungalow would 
be mad of course; but so many men have died mad 


in dak-bungalows that there must be a fair percent- 4 


age of lunatic ghosts. 
In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, 
for there were two of them. Uptill that hourI 


had sympathized with Mr. Besant’s method of hand- — a 


ling them, as shown in “ Zhe Strange Case of Mr. 
Lucraft and other Stories.” I am now in the Pe 
Opposition. ce 

We will call the bungalow Katmal dak- buna ag 


But that was the smallest part of the horror. A 4 


man witha sensitive hide has no right to sleepin 


dak-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal dak- 
bungalow was old and rotten and unrepaired. The 
floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and 2 
the windows were nearly black with grime. It 


stood on a bypath largely used by native Sub-Deputy — 4 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST sToRY. 127 


Assistants of all kinds, from Finance _ to Forests; 


but real Sahibs were rare. The khansamah, who 


was nearly bent double with old age, said so. 

When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain 
on the face of the land, accompanied by a restless 
wind, and every gust made a noise like the rattling 
of dry bones in the stiff toddy-palms outside. The 
khansamah completely lost his head on my arrival. 
He had served a Sahib once. Did I know that 
Sahib? He gave methe name of a well-known man 
who'has been buried for more than a quarter of a 
century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype 
of that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a 
steel engraving of him at the head of a double 
volume of Memoirs a month before, and I felt 
ancient beyond telling. 

The day shut in and the khansamah went to get 
me food. Hedid not go through the pretense of 
calling it “khana”—man’s victuals. He said 
“ratub,’ and that means, among other things, 
“ orub”—dog’s rations. There was no insult in 
in his choice of the term. He had-forgotten the 
other word, I suppose. 

While he was cutting up the dead bodies of 
animals, I settled myself down, after exploring the 
dak-bungalow. There were three rooms, beside my 
own, which was a corner kennel, each giving into 
the other through dingy white doors fastened with 
long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid 
one, but the partition-walls of the rooms were 
almost jerry-built in their flimsiness. Every step or 


128 MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 


bang of a fant echoed from my room _ down ‘the 
‘other three, and every footfall came back tremu 
lously from the far walls. For this reason I shut the. 
door. There were no lamps—only candles in long | 
glass shades. An oil wick was set in us Las : 
room. 
For bleak, unadulterated misery that ne bunga- 
low was the worst of the many that I had ever set 
foot in. There was no fire-place, and the windows 
would not open; so a brazier of charcoal would 
have been useless. The rain and the wind splashed 
and gurgled and moaned round the house, and the 
toddy-palms rattled and roared. Half a dozen 
jackals went through the compound singing, and 
hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena 
would convince a Sadducee of the Resurrection 
of the Dead—the worst sort of Dead. Then came 
the ratub—a curious meal, half native and half 
English in composition—with the old khansamah 
babbling behind my chair about dead and gone 
English people, and the wind-blown candles play- 
ing shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mos 
-quito-curtains. It was just the sort of dinner an 
evening to make a man think of every single one of 
his past sins, and of all the others that he intend d 
to commit if he dived: 
Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not eas} 
The lamp in the bath-room threw the most absur 
shadows into the room, and the wind was beginni 

to talk nonsense. , : 
Just when the reasons were drowsy with, blood 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 129 


sucking I heard the regular—“ Let-us-take-and- 
heave-him-over ” grunt of doolie-bearers in the com- 
pound. First one doolie came in, then a second, 
and then a third. J heard the doolies dumped on 
the ground, and the shutter in front of my door 
shook. “That’s some one trying to come in,” I 
said. But no one spoke, and I persuaded myself 
that it was the gusty wind. The shutter of the 
room next to mine was attacked, flung back, and 
- the inner door opened. “ That’s some Sub-Deputy 
Assistant,” I said, “and he has brought his friends 
with him. Now they’ll talk and spit and smoke for 
an hour.” 

But there were no voices and no footsteps. No 
one was putting his luggage into the next room. 
The door shut, and I thanked Providence that I 
was to be left in peace. But I was curious to know 
where the doolies had gone. I got out of bed and 
looked into the darkness. There was never a sign 
ofa doolie. Just as I was getting into bed again, 
I heard, in the next room, the sound that no man 
in his senses can possibly mistake—the whir of a 
billiard ball down the length of the slates when the 
striker is stringing for break. No other sound is like 
it. A minute afterwards there was another whir, 
and I got into bed. I was not frightened—indeed 
I was not. JI was very curious to know what had 
become of the doolies. I jumped into bed for that 
reason. 

Next minute I heard the double click of a can- 
non and my hair sat up. It is a mistake to say that 
mong 


130 MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 


hair stands up. The skin of the head tightens and 
you can feel a faint, prickly bristling all over the — 


‘sealp. That is the hair sitting up. 


There was a whir and a click, and both sounds : 
could only have been made by one thing—a billiard — 


ball. I argued the matter out at great length with 
myself; and the more I argued the less probable it 
seemed that one bed, one table, and two chairs—all 
the furniture of the room next to mine—could so 
exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards. 


After another cannon, a three-cushion one to judge 


by the whir, I argued no more. JI had found my 3 


ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped 


from that dak-bungalow. I listened, and with each — 


listen the game grew clearer. There was whir on 
whir and click on click. Sometimes there was a 
double click and a whir and another click. Beyond 4 
any sort of doubt, people were playing billiards 


in the next room. And the next room was not big 
enough to hold a billiard table! 
Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game 


go forward—stroke after stroke. I tried to believe 
that I could not hear voices ; but that attempt was 


a failure. 


Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear 
of insult, injury or death, but abject, quivering dread 


_of something that you cannot see—fear that dries 


the inside of the mouth and half of the throat—fear — 


that makes you sweat on the palms of the hands, 


and gulp in order to keep the uvula at work? This — 
is a fine Fear—a great cowardice, and must be felt 


; 


a fo? Se Seen 
ial f b 


7" 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 131 


to be appreciated. The very improbability of 
billiards in a dak-bungalow proved the reality of 
the thing. No man—drunk or sober—could imagine 
a game at billiards, or invent the spitting crack of 
a “screw-cannon.” 

A severe course of dak-bungalows has this dis- 
advantage—it breeds infinite credulity. Ifa man 
said to a confirmed dak-bungalow-haunter :—“ There 
is a corpse in the next room, and there’s a mad girl 
in the next but one, and the woman and man on 
that camel have just eloped from a place sixty miles 
away,” the hearer would not disbelieve because he 
would know that nothing is too wild, grotesque, or 
horrible to happen in a dak-bungalow. 

This credulity, unfortunately, extends to ghosts. 
A rational person fresh from his own house would 
have turned on his side and slept. I did not. So 
surely as I was given up as a bad carcass by the 
scores of things in the bed because the bulk of my 
blood was in my heart, so surely did I hear every 
stroke of a long game at billiards played in the 
echoing room behind the iron-barred door. My 
dominant fear was that the players might want a 
marker. It was an absurd fear; because creatures 
who could play in the dark would be above such 
superfiuities. I only know that that was my terror ; 
and it was real. 

After a long long while, the game stopped, and 
the door banged. I slept because I was dead tired. 
Otherwise I should have preferred to have kept 
awake. Not for everything in Asia would I have 


ae nearly to Kabul.” 


132 = My own TRUE GHOST sory. 


dropped the door- ban and peered into the ‘dark of 
the next room. : 
When the morning came, I considered that I had 
done well and wisely, and oad for the means OL 
departure. oe 
“By the way, khansamah,” I said, “ ne were. 
those three doolies doing in my compound _ in the 
night ?” 
‘There were no doolies,” ae the hapa 
I went into the next room and the daylight. 
streamed through the open door. I was immensely — 
brave. I would, at that hour, have played Black — 
Pool with the owner of the big Black Pool down 
below. 
“Has this place always been a dak-bungalow 1” S 
I asked. On 
“No,” said the annie ‘Tension: twenty 
years ago, I have forgotten how long, i it was. a 
billiard-room.” iy . , 
“¢ A how much ?” , | 
“A billiard-room for the Sahibs who puilt, tis 
Railway. I was khansamah then in the big house 
where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to. 
come across with brandy-shrab. These three rooms 
were all one, and they held a big table on which 
the Sahibs played every evening. But the Sahibs 
are all dead now, and the ee runs, oe ey) : 


“Do you remember anything about the Side? > 
“Tt is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, 
a fat man and always angry, was playing here one 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 133 


night, and he said to me:—‘ Mangal Khan, brandy- 
pani do, and I filled the glass, na he bent over the 
table to strike, and his head fell lower and lower 
till it hit the beable and his spectacles came off, and 
when we—the Sahibs and I myself—ran to lift him 
he was dead. I helped to carry him out. Aha, he 
was a strong Sahib! But he is dead and I, old 
Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor.” 

That was more than enough! [ had my ghost— 
a first-hand, authenticated article. I would write 
to the Society for Psychical Research—I would 
paralyze the Empire with the news! But I would, 
first of all, put eighty miles of assessed crop-land 
between myself and that dak-bungalow before night- 
fall. The Society might send their regular agent 
to investigate later on. 

I went into my room and prepared to pack after 
noting down the facts of the case. As I smoked I 
heard the game begin again,—with a miss in balk 
this time, for the whir was a short one. 

_ The door was open and I could see into the room. 
Click—cleck ! That was a cannon. I entered the 
room without fear, for there was sunlight within 
and a fresh breeze without. The unseen game was 
going on at a tremendous rate. And well it might, 
when a restless little rat was running to and fro 
inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose 
window-sash was making fifty breaks off the Wwin- 
dow-bolt as it shook in the breeze ! 

Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! 
Impossible to mistake the whir of a hall over the 


134 MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 


slate! But I was to be excused. Even when Ishut — 


my enlightened eyes the sound was mae a 


like that of a fast game. 


Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sor- oy 


rows, Kadir Baksh. | 

x This bungalow is very bad and low-astet No 
wonder the Presence was disturbed and is speckled. 
Three sets of doolie-bearers came to the bungalow 


late last night when I was sleeping outside, and sai ee = 


that it was their custon to rest in the rooms set 
apart for the English people! What honor has the 


khansamah ? They tried to enter, but I told them — a 


to go. No wonder, if these Oorias have been here, 
that the Presence is sorely spotted. It is shame, 
and the work of a dirty man!” a 

Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from a 
each gang two annas for rent in advance, and then, _ 
beyond my earshot, had beaten them with the big 
green umbrella whose use I could never before di- 
vine. But Kadir Baksh has no notions of morality. 

There was an interview with the khansamah, but 


as he promptly lost his head, wrath gave place to : 


pity, and pity led to a long conversation, in the 
course of which he put the fat Engineer- Sahib’s tragic. 


death in three separate stations—two of them fifty — ac 


_milesaway. The third shift was to Calcutta, and 
there the Sahib died while driving a dog-cart. 7 

If Thad encouraged him the khansamah would 

_ have wandered all through Bengal with his corpse. 

. I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed _ 
for the night, while the wind and the rat and the 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 135 


sash and the window-bolt played a ding-dong “ hun- 
dred and fifty up.” Then the wind ran out and the 
billiards stopped, and I felt that I had ruined my 
one genuine, hall-marked ghost story. 

Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could 
have made anything out of it. 

That was the bitterest thought of all! 


~ 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. — 


«‘ Where the word of a King is, there is Bs and who. 
may say unto Be CEE Rs doest thou o oe 


oY wre! And Chimo to sleep at ve foot of e 


I will be hanes in ve ee vate all, Miss 
Biddums. And now give me one kiss and Pi go 
sleep.—So! Kitequiet. Ow! Vepink pikky-bo 
has slidded under ve pillow and ve bwead is cwum 
bling! Miss Biddums! Miss Beddums! Tm so un- 
comfy! Come and tuck me up, Miss Biddums.”? 

His Majesty the King was going to bed ; and poo 
patient Miss Biddums, who had advertised herself 
humbly as a “ young person, European, accustomed — 
to the care of little children,” was forced to we 
upon his royal caprices. The going to bed was 
ways a lengthy process, because His Majesty had 
convenient knack of forgetting which of his ma 
friends, from the mehter’s son to the Commissione 
daughter, he had prayed for, and, lest the De’ 
should take offense, was used to toil through | : 
little prayers, in all reverence, five times in one eve 
ing. His Majesty the King believed in the effica 


of prayer as devoutly as he believed 1 in Chimo t 
136 | 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 13% 


patient spaniel, or Miss Biddums, who could reach 
him down his gun—“ with cursuffun caps——reed ones ” 
—from the upper shelves of the big nursery cup- 
board. 

At the door of the nursery his authority stopped. 
Beyond lay the empire of his father and mother— 
two very terrible people who had no time to waste 
upon His Majesty the King. His voice was lowered 
when he passed the frontier of his own dominions, 
his actions were fettered, and his soul was filled with 
awe because of the grim man who lived among a 
wilderness of pigeon-holes and the most fascinating 
pieces of red tape, and the wonderful woman who 
was always getting into or stepping out of the big 
carriage. } 

To the one belonged the mysteries of the “ duftar- 
room ;” to the other the great, reflected wilderness 
of the “ Memsahib’s room ” where the shiny, scented 
dresses hung on pegs, miles and miles up in the air, 
and the just-seen plateau of the toilet-table revealed 
an acreage of speckly combs, broidered “ hanafitch- 
bags,” and “ white-headed ” brushes. 

There was no room for His Majesty the King 
either in official reserve or mundane gorgeousness. 


_ He had discovered that, ages and ages ago—-before 


even Chimo came to the house, or Miss Biddums - 
had ceased grizzling over a packet of greasy letters 
which appeared to be her chief treasure on earth. 
His Majesty the King, therefore, wisely confined 
himself to his own territories, where only Miss Bid- 
dums, and she feebly, disputed his sway. 


138 HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


From Miss Biddums he had picked up hissimple 
theology and welded it to the legends of gods and = 
devils that he had learned in the servants’ quarters. 

To Miss Biddums he confided with equal trust his — 
tattered garments and his more serious griefs. She — 
would make everything whole. She knew exactly 
how the Earth had been born, and had reassured the 
trembling soul of His Majesty the King that terrible 
time in July when it rained continuously for seven — 
days and seven nights, and—there was no Ark ~ 
ready and all the ravens had flown away! She was — 
the most powerful person with whom he was brought 
into contact—always excepting the two remote and 
silent people beyond the nursery door. : 

How was his Majesty the King to know that, six — 
years ago, in the summer of his birth, Mrs. Austell, — 
turning over her husband’s papers, had come upon 
the intemperate letter of a foolish woman who had — 
been carried away by the silent man’s strength and — 
personal beauty? How could he tell what evil the — 
overlooked slip of note-paper had wrought in the 
mind of a desperately jealous wife! How could he, — 
despite his wisdon, guess that his mother had chosen o 
to make of it excuse for a bar and a division between — 
herself and her husband, that strengthened and 
grew harder to break with each year; that she hay- 
ing unearthed this skeleton in the cupboard had 
trained it into a household God which should be 
about their path and about. their bed, and a all : 
their ways ? : 
These things were beyond the province of His 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 139 


Majesty the King. He only knew that his father 
was daily absorbed in some mysterious work for a 
thing called the Szrkar and that his mother was the 
victim alternately of the Wautch and the Burrk- 
hana. To these entertainments she was escorted by 
a Captain-Man for whom His Majesty the King had 
no regard. 

“He doesn’t laugh,” he argued with Miss Biddumsg, 
who would fain have taught him charity. “He 
only makes faces wiv his mouf, and when he wants 
to o-muse me I am noéo-mused.” And His Majesty 
the King shook his head as one who knew the de- 
ceitfulness of this world. 

Morning and evening it was his duty to salute his 
father and mother—the former with a grave shake 
of the hand, and the latter with an equally grave 
kiss. Once, indeed, he had put his arms round his 
mother’s neck, in the fashion he used towards Miss 
Biddums. The openwork of his sleeve-edge caught 
in an earring, and the last stage of His Majesty’s 
little overture was a suppressed scream and summary 
dismissal to the nursery. 

“It is wong,” thought His Majesty the King, 
“to hug Memsahibs wiv fings in veir ears. I will 
amember.” He never repeated the experiment. 

Miss Biddums, it must be confessed, spoilt him 
as much as his nature admitted, in some sort of rec- 
ompense for what she called “ the hard ways of his 
Papa and Mamma.” She, like her charge, knew 
nothing of the trouble between man and wife—the 
savage contempt for a woman’s stupidity on the one 


140 HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


‘side, or the dull, rankling anger on the othe 
Biddums had jopken after many little chaters 
her time, and served in many establishments. 
ing a discreet woman, she observed little and sai 
less, and, when her ee went over the sea to the 
Great Unknown which she, with touching confidence 
in her hearers, called “ Home? packed up her slender 
belongings and sought for anplayae afresh, lavish- 
ing all her love on each successive batch of ingrate 
Only His Majesty the King had repaid her affection 
with interest; and in his uncomprehending ears she 
had told the tale of nearly all her hopes, her aspi 
tions, the hopes that were dead, and the dazzling 
glories of her ancestral home in Calcutta, close Oo 
Wallington Square.” 
Everything above the average was in the eyes f 
his Majesty the King “ Calcutta good.” When M 
Biddums had crossed his royal will, he reversed t 
epithet to vex that estimable indy, and all things 
evil were, until the tears of repentance ees aw. 
spite, “ Calcutta bad.” i 
Now and again Miss Biddums begged for him the 
rare pleasure a a day in the society of the Com 
-sioner’s child—the wilful four-year-old Patsie, who 
to the intense amazement of His Majesty the King, 
was idolized by her parents. On thinking the ques- 
tion out at length, by roads unknown to those w. 


blue sash and yellow hair. ss 
This precious discovery he kept to himself wT 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 14/1 


yellow hair was absolutely beyond his power, his . 
own tousled wig being potato-brown ; but something 
might be done towards the blue sash. He tied a 
large knot in his mosquito-curtains in order to re- 
member to consult Patsie on their next meeting. 
She was the only child he had ever spoken to, and 
almost the only one that he had ever seen. The 
little memory and the very large and ragged knot 
held good. 

“ Patsie, lend me your blue wiban,” said His 
Majesty the King. 

“You'll bewy it,” said Patsie doubtfully, mindful 
of certain fearful atrocities committed on her doll. 

S no: [ won’t—twoofanhonor. It’s for me to 

wear.’ 

Pooh!” said Patsie. “ Boys don’t wear sa-ashes. 
Zep’s only for dirls.” : 

“T didn’t know.” The face of his Majesty the 
King fell. 

“Who wants ribbons! Are you playing horses, 
chickabiddies ?”’ said the Commissioner’s wife, step- 
ping into the veranda. 

“Toby wanted my sash,” explained Patsie. 

“T don’t now,” said His Majesty the King hastily, 
feeling that with one of these terrible “ grown-ups ” 
his poor little secret would be shamelessly wrenched 
from him, and perhaps—-most burning desecration 
of all—laughed at. 

“Tl give you a cracker-cap,” said the Commis- 
sioner’s wife. “Come along with me, Toby, and 
we'll choose it.” 


_ spike, was tender. 


The cracker-cap was a stiff, ehres pull 
milion-and-tinsel splendor. His Majesty the k 
fitted it on his royal brow. The 
wile had a face that children instinctively t 
and her action, as she adjusted the opine 


“ Will it do as well?” stammered His Majaty + 
the King. es 
“ As what, litile one?” 
“ As ve wiban?” ne 
“Oh, cote Go and look at yourself i in 


glass.” a 
The words were spoken in all sincerity and 
help forward any absurd “ dressing-up” amuseme 


that the children might take into their minds. 
But the young savage hasa keen sense of the] u id ie 
crous. His Majesty the King swung the gre 
cheval-glass down, and saw his head owas vi 
the staring horror of a fool’s capa ting which hi 
father Ee rend to pieces if it ever came into I 
office. He plucked it off, and burst into tears. — 
“Toby,” said the Commissioner's wife gravel 
“you shouldn’t give way - temper. I am ve 
sorry to see it. It’s wrong.” = 
His Majesty the King sobbed inconsolably, al 
the heart of Patsie’s mother was touched. SI 
drew the child on to her knee. dalres was I 
“geass alone. | 

“What is it, Toby? Won't ya tell me? a 
you well?” 
The torrent of sobs and speech met, and | 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 143 


for a time, with chokings and gulpings and gasps. 
Then, in a sudden rush, His Majesty the King was 
delivered of a few inarticulate sounds, followed by 
the words :—“* Go a—way you—dirty—little deb- 
bil! ” 

“Toby! What do you mean?” 

“Tt’s what he’d say. I know itis! He said vat 
when vere was only a little, little egzy mess, on my 
t-t-unic; and he’d say it again, and laugh, if I went 
in wif vat on my head.” 

“Who would say that?” 

“ M-m-my Papa! And I fought if I had ve blue 
wiban, he’d let me play in ve waste-paper basket 
under ve table.” x 

* What blue ribbon, childie ?” 

“Ve same vat Patsie had—ve big blue wiban 
w-w-wound my t-t-tummy !” 

“What is it, Toby? There’s something on your 
mind. ‘Tell me all aboutit and perhaps I can help.” 

“Tsn’t anyfing,’ sniffed His Majesty, mindful of 
his manhood, and raising his head from the motherly 
bosom upon which it was resting. “I only fought 
vat you—you petted Patsie ’cause she had ve blue 
wiban, and—and if I’d had ve blue wiban too, m-my 
Papa w-would pet me.” 

The secret was out, and His Majesty the King 
sobbed bitterly in spite of the arms round him, and 
the murmur of comfort on his heated little forehead. 

Enter Patsie tumultuously, embarrassed by several 
lengths of the Commissioner’s pet mahseer-rod. 
“Tum along, Toby! Zere’s a chu-chu lizard in ze 


yy I iT it sel 
Kt cen i) 


| ing down frac the Commisioner’s wife’s knee a 
a hasty kiss. Bane 


: heads.” 


_for the benefit of His Majesty the King. — 


144" HIS MAJESTY THE KING. ‘e ee 


chick, and I’ve told Chimo to watch him fill a um. 
If we poke him wiz zis his tail will go wiggle-wiggl oe 
and fall off. tam along! I can’t weach.” : 

“7’m comin’,” said His Majesty the King, climb. 


Two minutes later, the chu-chu lizard’s isi was S 
wiggling on the matting of the veranda, and the — 
children were gravely poking it with splinters from 
the chick, to urge its exhausted vitality, into “jz 
one wiggle more, ’cause it doesn’t hurt chu-chu.” 

The “Commnissoner’s Wife stood in the doorwe ee 
and watched :—* Poor little mite! A blue sash 
. . . and my own precious Patsie! I wonder 
if the best of us, or we who love them best, evel 
understand what E08 2 on in their Bei 


wedding-ring. and she went ees to devise a 


«c su sees aren’t i in their pase at that a, 


on Mrs. Austell and ake long and ore ab 
children ; inquiring specely: for His Majesty. 
King. — ae 
“He’s with his governess,’ said Mrs. Aust 2 
and the tone intimated that she was not intere rest d. 


YS he oe Pt ae 25 SS ge ere ow ee. ove see Tf ae eS MA? De iin |. ae 
a a oa! ae) arin Dad 5 ae Sh : ReaD, 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 145 


_ war, continued her questionings. “I don’t know,” 
said Mrs. Austell. “These things are left to Miss 
Biddums, and, of course, she does not ill-treat the 
child.” 

The Commissioner’s wife left hastily. The last 
sentence jarred upon her nerves. “ Doesn’t 2d/-treat 
the child! As if that were all! I wonder what 
Tom would say if I only ‘ didn’t ill-treat’ Patsie ! ” 

Thenceforward, His Majesty the King was an 
honored guest at the Commissioner’s house, and 
the chosen friend of Patsie, with whom he blundered 
into as many scrapes as the compound and the ser- 
vants’ quarters afforded. Patsie’s Mamma was 
always ready to give counsel, help, and sympathy, 

~ and, if need were and callers few, to enter into their 
games with an abandon that would have shocked 
the sleek-haired subalterns who squirmed painfully 
in their chairs when they came to call on her whom 
they profanely nicknamed “ Mother Bunch.” 

Yet, in spite of Patsie and Patsie’s Mamma, and 
the love that these two lavished upon him, His Maj- 
esty the King fell grievously from grace, and com- 
mitted no less a sin than that of theft—unknown, 
it is true, but burdensome. 

There came a man to the door one day, when 
His Majesty was playing in the hall and the bearer 
had gone to dinner, with a packet for his Majesty’s 
Mamma. And he put it upon the hall-table, said 
that there was no answer, and departed. 

_ Presently, the pattern of the dado ceased to inter- 
est His Majesty, while the packet, a white, neatly 
10 


146 HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


wrapped one of fascinating shape, interested him very _ 
much indeed. His Mamma was out, so was Miss — 
Biddums, and there was pink string round the packet. 


He greatly desired pink string. It would help him 


in many of his little businesses—the haulage across — 


the floor of his small cane-chair, the torturing of 
Chimo, who could never understand harness—and 
so forth. If he took the string it would be his own, 


and nobody would be any the wiser. He certainly — 3 
could not pluck up sufficient courage to ask Mamma — 


for it. Wherefore, mounting upon a chair, he care- 
fully untied the string and, behold, the stiff white 

aper spread out in four directions, and revealed a 
beautiful little leather box with gold lines upon it! 
He tried to replace the string, but that wasa failure. 
So he opened the box to get full satisfaction for his 


iniquity, and saw amost beautiful Star thatshoneand : 
winked, and was altogether lovely and desirable. \ 


“Vat,” said His Majesty meditatively, “is a_ 
- *parkle cwown, like what I will wear when I go 
to heaven. I will wear it on my head—Miss Bid- 
dums says so. I would like to wear it now. I 
would like to play wiv it. I will take it away and 


play wiv it, very careful, until Mamma asks for it. — 
I fink it was bought for me to play wiv—same as 


my cart.” 

His Majesty the King was arguing against his 
conscience, and he knew it, for he thought 1mme- 
diately after: “ Never mind. I will keep it to play 
wiv until Mamma says where is it, and then I will 


say :—‘I tookt it and Iam sorry.’ I will not hurt — 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 147 


it, because it is a ’parkle cwown. But Miss Bid- 
dums will tell me to put it back. I will not show 
it to Miss Biddums.” 

If Mamma had come in at that moment all would 
have gone well. She did not, and His Majesty the 
King stuffed paper, case, and jewel into the breast 
of his blouse and marched to the nursery. 

“When Mamma asks I will tell,” was the salve 
that he laid upon his conscience. But Mamma never 
asked, and for three whole days His Majesty the 
King gloated over his treasure. It was of no earth- 
ly use to him, but it was splendid, and, for aught he 
knew, something dropped from the heavens them- 
selves. Still Mamma made no- inquiries, and it 
seemed to him, in his furtive peeps, as though the 
shiny stones grew dim. What was the use of a 
*parkle cwown if it made a little boy feel all bad in 
his inside? He had the pink string as well as the 
other treasure, but greatly he wished that he had 
not gone beyond the string. It was his first experi- 
ence of iniquity, and it pained him after the flush of 
possession and secret delight in the “’parkle cwown ”’ 
had died away. 

Each day that he delayed rendered confession 
to the people beyond the nursery doors more impos- 
sible. Now and again he determined to put himself 
in the path of the beautifully attired lady as she 
was going out, and explain that he and no one else 
was the possessor of a “’parkle cwown,” most beau- 
tiful and quite uninquired for. But she passed 
hurriedly to her carriage, and the opportunity was 


148 . HIS MAJESTY THE KING. | 


gone before His Majesty the King could coe the 
deep breath which clinches noble resolve. The 
dread secret cut him off from Miss Biddums, Patsie, 
and the Commissioner’s wife, and—doubly hard 
fate—-when he brooded over it Patsie said, and told 
her mother, that he was cross. 
The days were very long to His ace the King, 
and the nights longer still. Miss Biddums had in- 
formed him, more than once, what was the ultimate 
destiny of “ fieves,”’ and Oa he passed the inter- 
minable mud flanks of the Central Jail, he shook i in 
his little strapped shoes. 
But release came after an afternoon spent in play 
ing boats by the edge of the tank at the bottom 
of the garden. His Majesty the King went to 
tea, and, for the first time in his memory, the meal 
revalted him. His nose was very cold, and his 
cheeks were burning hot. There was a weigh 
about his feet, and he pressed his head several times 
to make sure that it was not swelling as he sat. 
“T feel vevy funny,” said His Majesty’ the King, ey 
rubbing his nose. “ Nee: s a buzz-buzz in a 
head.” | s 
He went to bed quietly. Miss Bidgaine was out 
and the bearer undressed him. = 
The sin of the “’parkle cwown” was ome 
the acuteness of the discomfort to which he rou 
after a leaden sleep of some hours. He was thirs 
and the bearer had forgotten to leave the drinkin 
water. “Miss Biddums! Miss Biddums! Pm s 
kirsty !” | a 


HIS: MAJESTY THE KING. 149 


No answer. Miss Biddums had leave to attend 
the wedding of a Calcutta schoolmate. His Ma- 
jesty the King had forgotten that. 

“T want a dwink of water!” he cried, but his 
voice was dried up in histhroat. “Iwantadwink! 
Vere is ve glass ?” 

He sat up in bed and looked round. There was 
a murmur of voices from the other side of the nur- 
sery door. It was better to face the terrible un- 
known than to choke in the dark. He slipped out 
of bed, but his feet were strangely wilful, and he 
reeled once or twice. Then he pushed the door 
open and staggered—a puffed and purple-faced little 
figure—into the brilliant light of the dining-room 
full of pretty ladies. 

“Tm vevy hot! Pm vevy uncomfitivle,” moaned 
His Majesty the King, clinging to the portiére, “and 
vere’s no water in ve glass, and ’msokirsty. Give 
me a dwink of water.” 

An apparition in black and white—His Majesty 
the King could hardly see distinctly—lifted him up 
to the level of the table, and felt his wrists and fore- 
head. The water came, and he drank deeply, his 
teeth chattering against the edge of the tumbler. 
Then every one seemed to go away—every one ex- 
cept the huge man in black and white, who carried 
him back to his bed ; the mother and father follow- 
ing. And the sin of the “’parkle cwown ” rushed 
back and took possession of the terrified soul. 

“Tm a fief!” he gasped. “I want to tell Miss 
Biddums vat ’m a fief. Vere is Miss Biddums ¢” 


150 HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


Miss Biddums had come and was bending over him. — 
“Tm a fief,” he whispered. ‘ A fief—like ve men in 
the pwison. But Tll tell now. Itookt . . . I 
tookt ve ’parkle cwown when the man that came left 
it in ve hall. I bwoke ve paper and ve little bwown 
box, and it looked shiny, and I tookt it to play wif, © 
and I was afwaid. It’s in ve dooly-box at ve bot- — 
tom. No one never asked for it, but I was atwaid. . 
Oh, go an’ get ve dooly-box!” 


Miss Biddums obediently stooped to the owes 


shelf of the almirah and unearthed the big paper 


box in which His Majesty the King kept his dearest os 
possessions. Under the tin soldiers, anda layer of 


mud pellets for a pellet-bow, winked and blazed 


a diamond star, wrapped roughly in a half-sheet of — ; 


note-paper whereon were a few words. | 
Somebody was crying at the head of the bed, and 
a man’s hand touched the forehead of His Majesty 


the King, who grasped the packet and spread it on — ee 


the bed. 


“Vat is ve ’parkle cwown,” he said and wept 


bitterly ; for now that he had made restitution he 


would fain have kept the shining splendor with him. — i 


‘It concerns vou too,” said a voice at the head 
of the bed. “ Read the note. This is not the time 
to keep back anything.” =. 

The note was curt, very much to the point, and 
sioned by a single initial. “Jf you wear this to- 
morrow night. LI shall know what to expect.” The 
date was three weeks old. 

A whisper followed, and the deeper voice re- 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 151 


turned :—“ And you drifted as far apart as that! 
I think it makes us quits now, doesn’t it? Oh, can’t 
we drop this folly once and for all? Is it worth 
it, darling ¢” 

“Kiss me too,’ said His Majesty the King, 
dreamily. “ You isn’t vevy angwy, is you?” 

The fever burned itself out, and His Majesty the 
King slept. 

When he waked, it was in a new world—peopled 
by his father and mother as well as Miss Biddums: 
and there was much love in that world and no mor- 
sel of fear, and more petting than was good for 
several little boys. His Majesty the King was too 
young to moralize on the uncertainty of things 
human, or he would have been impressed with the 
_ singular advantages of crime—ay, black sin. Be- 
hold, he had stolen the “’parkle cwown,” and his 
reward was Love, and the right to play in the waste- 
paper basket under the table “ for always.” 


He trotted over to spend an afternoon with Patsie, 
and the Commissioner’s wife would have kissed him. 
“No, not vere,” said His Majesty the King, with 
superb insolence, fencing one corner of his mouth 
with his hand. “ Vat’s my Mamma’s place—-vere 
she kisses me.” 

“Oh!” said the Commissioner’s wife briefly. 
Then to herself :—“ Well, I suppose I ought to be 
glad for his sake. Children are selfish little grubs 
and—Tve got my Patsie.” 


and that was the end of the christened titles. ri 
mother’s ayah called him Willie-Baba, but as 
never paid the faintest attention to anything t. 
the ayah said, her wisdom did not help matters. 

His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as 
soon as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to un 
derstand what Military Discipline meant, Colo 
Williams put him under it. There was no other 
way of managing thechild. Whenhe was good fo 


H Ghanees to little eros of going wrong. 
Children resent familiarity from strangers, 
Wee Willie Winkie was a very particular child 
Once he accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously 
pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subal 
of the 195th, on sight. Brandis was fae tea 


the Gdionel’s and Wee ae Winkie entered str 
152 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 153 


‘in the possession of a good-conduct badge won for 
- not chasing the hens round the compound. He re- 
garded Brandis with gravity for at least ten minutes 
and then delivered himself of his opinion. 

“T like you,” said he slowly, getting off his chair 
and coming over to Brandis. “I like you. I shall 
call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do you 
mind being called Coppy? it is because of ve hair, 
you know.” 

Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee 
Willie Winkie’s peculiarities. He would look ata 
stranger for some time, and then, without warning 
or explanation, would give him a name. And the 
name stuck. No regimental penalties could break 
Wee Willie Winkie of this habit. He lost his good- 
conduct badge for christening the Commissioner’s 
wife “ Pobs”; but nothing that the Colonel could 
do made the Station forego the nickname, and Mrs. 
Collen remained Mrs. « Pobs”’ till the end of 
her stay. So Brandis was christened “Coppy,” 
and rose, therefore, in the estimation of the regi- 
ment. 

If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, 
the fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and 
the rank and file. And in their envy lay no suspi- 
cion of self-interest. “The Colonel’s son” was 
idolized on his own merits entirely. Yet Wee 
Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face was per- 
manently freckled, as his legs were permanently 
scratched, and in spite of his mother” s almost tear- 
fal temonstrances hé had insisted tipon having his 


154 WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion. 
‘Tl want my hair like Sergeant Tummiul’s,” said Wee 
Willie Winkie, and, his father abetting, the sacrifice 


was accomplished. 


Three weeks after the bestowal of his youn a 
affections on Lieutenant Brandis—henceforward to aM 
be called “Coppy” for. the sake of brevity—Wee 
Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange things 


and far beyond his comprehension. 

Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy 
had let him wear for five rapturous minutes his own 
big sword—just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie. 


Coppy had promised him a terrier puppy; and a 
Coppy had permitted him to witness the miraculous 


operation of shaving. Nay, more—Coppy had said _ 
that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would rise in time 
to the Aen of a box of ee knives, a silver 
soap-box and a silver-handled “ sputter, bend: ec 
Wee Willie Winkie calledit. Decidedly, there was 


no one except his father, who could give or take oe 


away good-conduct badges at pleasure, half so wise, 


strong, and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan 
and Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, then, — 
should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness of _ 


kissing—vehemently kissing—a “big girl,” Miss 
Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morning ride, 


Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, 
like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled 
round and cantered back to his groom, lest the 


groom should also see. 


Under ordinary circumstances he would have ae 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 155 


spoken to his father, but he felt instinctively that 
this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to be 
consulted. | 

“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up 
outside that subaltern’s bungalow early one morning 
—‘‘] want to see you, Coppy! ” 

“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who was 
at early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. ‘“ What 
mischief have you been getting into now?” 

Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously 
bad for three days, and so stood ona pinnacle of 
virtue. 

“Tve been doing nothing bad,” said he, curling 
himself into a long chair with a studious affectation of: 
the Colonel’s languor after a hot parade. He buried 
his freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring 
roundly over the rim, asked :—“I say, Coppy, is it 
pwoper to kiss big girls?” 

“By Jove! You're beginning early. Who do 
you want to kiss?” 

“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if I 
don’t stop her. If it isn’t pwoper, how was you kiss- 
ing Major Allardyce’s big girl last morning, by ve 
canal ? ” 

Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce 
had with great craft managed to keep their engage- 
ment secret for afortnight. There were urgent and 
imperative reasons why Major Allardyce should not 
know how matters stood for at least another month, 
and this small marplot had discovered a great deal 
too much. 


ees 


156 : WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


“JT saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie - 
“ But vegroom didn’t see. I said, ‘Hut j ee hie 


to wide ve buffalo ven my pony was lame ; 3 

fought you wouldn’t like.” 
% Winkie,” said Coppy enthusiastically, Shales oy 

the small hand, “youw’re the best of good fellows. 


go and tell your father.” - 
“What will happen?” ol Wee Willie Wi 


ened. “ “TPs like ve sputter-brush ? 2 
sf coy said Coppy gravely 


WE WILLIE WINKIE. 157 


“ But I don’t fink Pll ever want to kiss big girls, 
nor no one ’cept my muvver. And I musé vat, you 
know.” 

There was a fore pause, broken by Wee Willie 
Winkie. 

“ Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy ee 

“ Awfully ! ” said Coppy. 

“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha—or 
me ? 999 

“Tt’s in a different way,’ said Coppy. “ You see, 
one of these days Miss Allardyce will belong to me, 
but you'll grow up and command the Regiment and 
—all sorts of things. It’s quite different, you see.” 

“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. 
“Tf you're fond of ve big girl, I won’t tell any one. 
I must go now.” 

Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the 
door, adding :—“ You’re the best of little fellows, 
Winkie. Itellyou what. In thirty days from now 
you can tell if you like—tell any one you like.’’ 

Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engage- 
ment was dependent on a little child’s word. Coppy, 
who knew Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of truth, was at 
ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. 
Wee Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual in- 
terest in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolving round 
that embarrassed young lady, was used to regard her 
gravely with unwinking eye. He was trying to dis- 
cover why Coppy should have kissed her. She was 
not half so nice as his own mother. On the other 
hand, she was Coppy’s property, and would in time 


158 WEE WILLIE WINKIR. 


belong to him. Therefore it behooved him to treat 
her with as much respect as Coppy’s big sword or 
shiny pistol. 


The idea that he had shared a Sy secret incom- 


mon with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie unusually 
virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke 


out, and he made what he called a “camp fire” at — a 


the bottom of the garden. How could he have fore- 
seen that the flying sparks would have lighted the 
Colonel’s little hayrick and consumed a week’s store 
for the horses? Sudden and swift was the punish- 
ment—deprivation of the good-conduct badge and, 
most sorrowful of all, two days confinement to 
barracks—the house and veranda—coupled with 


the withdrawal of the light of his father’s counte-— 2 


nance. 


drew himself up with a quivering under-lip, saluted, 


and, once clear of the room, ran to weep bitterly in “a 


his nursery—called by him “my quarters.” Coppy 
came in the afternoon and attempted to console see 
culprit. 


“T’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie 


mournfully, “and I didn’t ought to speak to you.” 
Very early the next morning he climbed on to the 


roof of the house—that was not forbidden—and_ be- oe 


held Miss Allardyce going for a ride. 


“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie 


~— Winkie. 
“ Across the river,” she answered, and trotted 
forward. 


He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, — < 


WEE WiLLIE WINKIE. 159 


Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay 
was bounded on the north by a river—dry in the 
winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie Winkie 
had been forbidden to go across the river, and had 
noted that even Coppy—the almost almighty Coppy 
—had never set foot beyondit. Wee Willie Winkie 
had once been read to, out of a big blue book, the 
history of the Princess and the Goblins—a most 
wonderful tale of a land where the Goblins were al- 
ways warring with the children of men until they 
were defeated by one Curdie. Ever since that date 
it seemed to him that the bare black and purple hills 
across the river were inhabited by Goblins, and, in 
truth, every one had said that there lived the Bad 
Men. Evenin his own house the lower halves of 
the windows were covered with green paper on ac- 
count of the Bad Men who might, if allowed clear 
view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and comfort- 
able bedrooms. - Certainly, beyond the river, which 
was the end of all the earth, lived the Bad Men. 
And here was Major Allardyce’s big girl, Coppy’s 
property, preparing to venture into their borders! 
What would Coppy say if anything happened to her ? 
If the Goblins ran off with her as they did with 
Curdie’s Princess? She must at all hazards be turned 
back. 

The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie re- 
flected for a moment on the very terrible wrath of 
his father ; and then—broke his arrest! It was a 
crime unspeakable. The low sun threw his shadow, 
very large and very black, on the trim garden-paths, 


160° = WEE WILLIE WINKIE. — 


pony. It seemed to him in the hush of the daw 
that all the big world had been bidden to stand 
still and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of 
mutiny. The drowsy groom handed him his mount, 
and, since the one great sin made all others Jnsig- 
nificant, Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going 
to ride over to Coppy Sahib, and went out at afoot-— 
pace, stepping on the soft mould of the flowe = 
borders. 

The devastating track of the pony’s feet was ate 
last misdeed that cut him off from all sympathy of 
Humanity. He turned into the road, leaned for- 
ward, and rode as fast as the pony could put foot to 
the pround 1 in the direction of the river. | 

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can ae 
little against the long canter of a Waler. Miss 
Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the 
corps, beyond the Police-post, when all the guards 
were asleep, and her mount was scattering the 


pebbles of the river bed as Wee Willie a 1 ft 


see Miss Allardyce a black speck, flickering across 
the stony Ses ‘Dbe reason | Of her va was 


must not ride out by the river. And she ad gol e 
to prove her own So and teach CORD a lease ss 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 161 


Willie Winkie saw the Waler blunder and come 
down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but 
her ankle had been severely twisted, and she could 
not stand. Having thus demonstrated her spirit, 
she wept copiously, and was surprised by the ap- — 
parition of a white, wide-eyed child khaki, on a 
nearly spent pony. 

“Are you badly, badly hurted?” shouted Wee 
Willie Winkie, as soon as he was within range. 
“ You didn’t ought to be here.” 

“T don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce ruefully, 
ignoring the reproof. ‘“ Good gracious, child, what 
are you doing here?” 

“You said you. was going acwoss ve wiver,” 
panted Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off 
his pony. ‘“ And nobody—not even Coppy—must 
go acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you ever so 
hard, but you wouldn’t stop, and now you've hurted 
yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and— 
Tve bwoken my awwest! DPve bwoken my aw- 
west!” 

The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and 
sobbed. In spite of the pain in her ankle the girl 
was moved. ; 

“Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, 
little man? What for?” 

“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!” 
wailed Wee Willie Winkie disconsolately. ‘I saw 
him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you 
van bell or ve Butcha orme. AndsoIcame. You 


must get up and come back. You didn’t ought to 
II : 


162 WEE WILLIE WINKIE. | 


be here Vis is a bad place, and ’ve bwoken my a 


aw west.” 
“T can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, 
with a groan. “I’ve hurt my foot. What shall 
Ido?” 

She showed a readiness to weep afresh, which 
steadied Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought 


up to believe that tears were the depth of unman-— 


liness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee 
Willie Winkie, even a man may be permitted to 
break down. 

“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve 
rested a little, ride back and tell them to send out 
something to carry me back in. It hurts fearfully.” 


The child sat still for a little time and Miss Al- 


lardyce closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making 
her faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie 
tying up the reins on his pony’s neck and setting it 
free with a vicious cut of his whip that made it 
whicker. The little animal headed towards the 
cantonments. 

“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?” 

“ Hush !” said Wee Willie Winkie. “ Vere’sa 
man coming—one of ve Bad Men. I must stay wiv 
you. My faver says a man must always look after 
a girl. Jack will go home, and ven vey’ll come ane 
look for us. Vat’s why I let him go.” 


Not one man, but two or three had appeared 


from behind the foe of the hills, and the heart of 
Wee Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in this 
manner were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex 


WEE WILLIE WINKIiE. 163 


Curdie’s soul. Thus had they played in Curdie’s 
garden, he had seen the picture, and thus had they 
frightened the Princess’s nurse. He heard them 
talking to each other, and recognized with joy the 
bastard Pushto that he had picked up from one of 
his father’s grooms lately dismissed. People who 
spoke that tongue could not bethe Bad Men. They 
were only natives after all. 

They came up to the bowlders on which Miss 
Allardyce’s horse had blundered, 

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, 
child of the Dominant Race, aged six and three- 
quarters, and said briefly and emphatically “Jao?” 
The pony had crossed the river-bed. 

The men laughed, and laughter from natives was 
the one thing Wee Willie Winkie could not toler- 
ate. He asked them what they wanted and why 
they did not depart. Other men with most evil 
faces and crooked-stocked guns crept out of the shad- 
ows of the hills, till, soon, Wee Willie Winkie was 
face to face with an audience some twenty strong. 
Miss Allardyce screamed. 

“Who are you?” said one of the men. 

J am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order is 
that you go at once. You black men are frighten- 
ing the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into can- 
tonments and take the news that the Miss Sahib 
has hurt herself, and that the Colonel’s son is here 
with her.” 

“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing 
reply. ‘‘ Hear this boy’s speech! ” 


164 WEE WILLIE Se 


“2 Say that I sent a the Colonels 8 son. _ They = 
will give you money.” — eo 
« What is the use of this talk? Take up the ehild 
and the girl, and we can at least ask for the ran- 
som. Ours are the villages on the heights,” said 3 
voice in the background. 2 
These were the Bad Men—worse than Goblins: 
and it needed all Wee Willie Winkie’s training to 
prevent him from bursting into tears. But he felt 
that to cry before a native, excepting only his 
mother’s ayah, would be an infamy greater than any 
mutiny. Moreover, he, as future Colonel of the 
195th, had that grim regiment at his back. | 
“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee 
Willie Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable. _ 
“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur,” said the tallest 
of the men, “and eat you afterwards.” e 
“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
‘Men do not eat men.” Ze 
A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went & 
on firmly,—‘ And if you do carry us away, I tell : 
you that all my regiment will come up in a day and _ 
kill you all without leaving one. Who will take ny 5 
message to the Colonel Sahib ?” e 
Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie Winkie | 
had a colloquial acquaintance with three—was easy 
to the boy who could not yet manage his “ r’s ” "and 
“th’s” aright. a ee 
_ Another man joined the conference, erying: — 
- “QO foolish men! ‘What this babe says is true. He 
is the heart’s heart of those white troops. For the 


ng cs lane) Og > aig > on eR  eY t-yt Nae , ae 
pate yt tri 3-3 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 165 


sake of peace let them go both, for if he be taken, 
the regiment will break loose and gut the valley. 
Our villages are in the valley, and we shall not es- 
cape. That regiment aredevils. They broke Khoda 
Yar’s breast-bone with kicks when he tried to take 
the rifles ; and if we touch this child they will fire 
and rape and plunder for a month, till nothing re- 
mains. Better to send a man back to take the mes- 
sage and get areward. Isay that this child is their 
God, and that they will spare none of us, nor our 
women, if we harm him.” 

It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of 
the Colonel, who made the diversion, and an angry 
and heated discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie, 
standing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. 
Surely his “ wegiment,” his own “ wegiment,” would 
not desert him if they knew of his extremity. 


The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, 
though there had been consternation in the Colonel’s 
household for an hour before. The little beast came 
in through the parade-ground in front of the main 
barracks, where the men were settling down to play 
Spoil-five till the afternoon. Devlin, the Color Ser- 
geant of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle 
and tumbled through the barrack-rooms, kicking up 
each Room Corporal as he passed. “Up, ye beg- 
gars! There’s something happened to the Colonel’s 
son,” he shouted. a | 

*“ He couldn’t fall off! S’elp me,’e couldn’¢ fall 


166 oe WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


off,’ blubbered a drummer-boy. “Go an’ hunt 
acrost the river. He’s over there if he’s anywhere, 
an’ week those Pathans have got *im. For the 
love o’ Gawd don’t look for ’im in the nullahs! — 
Let’s go over the river.’ 

e There's sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin. “E 
Company, double out to the river—sharp!” 

So E Company, in its shirt sleeves mainly, dou- 
bled for the dear life, and in the rear toiled the per- 
spiring Sergeant, adjuring it to double yet faster. 
The cantonment was alive with the men of the 
195th hunting for Wee Willie Winkie, and the 
Colonel finally overtook E Company, far too ex- 
hausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of the 
river-bed. 

Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s Bad 
Men were discussing the wisdom of carrying off the 
child and the girl, a lookout fired two shots. 

“What have I said ?” shouted Din Mahommed. 
“There isthe warning! The pulton are out already 
and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let 
us not be seen with the boy!” 

The men waited for an instant, and then, as 
another shot was fired, withdrew into the hills, 
silently as they had appeared. 

“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie confidently to Miss Allardyce, “and it’s all 
wight. Don’t cwy!” 

He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes 


later, when his father came up, he was weeping bit- _ 5 


terly with his head in Miss Allardyce’s lap. 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 167 


And the men of the 195th carried him home with 
shouts and rejoicings; and Coppy, who had ridden 
a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense 
disgust, kissed him openly in the presence of the 
men. 

But there was balm for his dignity. His father 
assured him that not only would the breaking of 
arrest be condoned, but that the good-conduct 
badge would be restored as soon as his mother 
could sew it on his blouse-sleeve. Miss Allardyce 
had told the Colonel a story that made him proud 
of hisson. . 

“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy 
forefinger. I Anew she didn’t ought to go acwoss 
ve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to 
me if I sent Jack home.” 

“You're a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy—“ a pukka 
hero!” 

“T don’t know what vat means,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, “but you mustn’t call me Winkie any no — 
more. I’m Percival Will’am Will’ams.” 

And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter 
into his manhood. 


THE FIRST BAG. 


Tury were putting Punch to bed—the ayah and 
the hamal and Meeta, the big Surti boy with the 
red and gold turban. Judy, already tucked inside 
her mosquito-curtains, was nearly asleep. Punch 
had been allowed to stay up for dinner. Many 

privileges had been accorded to Punch within the 
last ten days, and a greater kindness from the peopl 
of his world had encompassed his ways and work: 
which were mostly obstreperous. He sat on the 
edge of his bed and swung his bare legs defiantly. ; 

« Punch-baba going to Pye ¢” said ae ag a 
suggestively. 

“No,” said Punch. ‘‘ Punch- ‘abe wants the ton 
about ibe Ranee that was turned into a tiger. 
Meeta must tell it, and the Aamal shall hide behind 
the door and make tiger-noises at the proper time 

“But Judy-baba will wake up,” said the ayah. — 

“ Judy-baba is waking,” piped a small voice fro. 
the mosquito-curtains. “There was a Ranee that 
lived at Delhi. Go on, Meeta,” and she fell fast 
asleep again while Meeta began the story. 


Never had Punch yea the veling of that tale 
168 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 169 


with so little opposition. He reflected fora long 
time. The hamal made the tiger-noises in twenty 
different keys. 

“°Top!” said Punch, authoritatively. ‘“ Why 
doesn’t Papa come in and say he is going to give 
me put-put ?”’ 

“ Punch-baba is going away,” said the ayah. “In 
another week there will be no Punch-baba to pull 
my hair any more.” She sighed softly, for the boy 
of the household was very dear to her heart. 

“Up the Ghauts in a train?” said Punch, stand- 
ing on his bed. “All the way to Nassick where 
the Ranee-Tiger lives ?” 

“Not to Nassick this year, little Sahib,” said 
Meeta, lifting him on his shoulder. “Down to the 
sea where the cocoanuts are thrown, and across the 
seaina big ship. Will you take Meeta with you 
to Belait ?” 

“You shall all come,” said Punch, from the 
height of Meeta’s strong arms. ‘“ Meeta and the 
ayah and the hamatand Bhini-in-the-Garden, and the 
salaam-Captain-Sahib-snake-man.” 

There was no mockery in Meeta’s voice when he 
replied—* Great is the Sahib’s favor,” and laid the 
little man down in the bed, while the ayah, sitting 
in the moonlight at the doorway, lulled him to sleep 
with an interminable canticle such as they sing in 
the Roman Catholic Church, at Parel. Punchcurled 
himself into a ball and slept. 

Next morning Judy shouted that there was a rat 
in the nursery, and thus he forgot to tell her the 


170 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


wonderful news. It did not much matter, for Judy 
was only three and she would not have understood. _ 
But Punch was five; and he knew that going to — 
England would be much nicer than a trip to Nassick. 


And Papa and Mamma sold the brougham and 


the piano, and stripped the house, and curtailed the 


allowance of crockery for the daily meals, and took 
long counsel together over a bundle of letters bear- 
ing the Rocklington post-mark. 

-“ The worst of it is that one can’t be certain of 
anything,” said Papa, pulling his mustache. “The 
letters in themselves are excellent, and the terms are 
moderate enough.” 

“The worst of it is that the children will grow up 
away from me,” thought Mamma: but she did not e 
say it aloud. 

“We are only one case among hundreds,” said 
Papa, Dien “ You shall go Home oo in five 
years, dear.” 

“Punch will be ten then—and Judy eight. Oh, 
how long and long and long the time will be! And 
we have to leave them among strangers.” 


“ Punch isacheery little chap. He’ssure to make 


friends wherever he goes.” 
“ And who could help loving my Ju?” 
They were standing over the cots in the nursery 
late at night, and I think that Mamma was crying ~ 


softly. After Papa had gone away, she knelt down 


by the side of Judy’s cot. Theayahsaw herand put 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 171 


up a prayer that the memsaheb might never find the 
love of her children taken away from her and given 
to a stranger. 

Mamma/’s own prayer was a slightly illogical one. 
Summarized it ran :—“ Let strangers love my chil- 
dren and be as good to them as I should be, but let 
me preserve their love and their confidence for ever 
-and ever. Amen.” Punch scratched himself in his 
sleep, and Judy moaned a little. That seems to be 
the only answer to the prayer: and, next day, they 
all went down to the sea, and there was a scene at 
the Apollo Bunder when Punch discovered that 
Meeta could not come too, and Judy learned that the 
ayah must be left behind. But Punch found a thou- 
sand fascinating things in the rope, block, and steam- 
pipe line on the big P. and O. Steamer, long before 
Meeta and the aya/ had dried their tears. 

* Come back, Punch-baba,” said the ayah. : 

“ Come back,” said Meeta, “and bea Burra Sahib.” 

“ Yes,” said Punch, lifted up in his father’s arms 
to wave good-by. “Yes, I will come back, and I 
will be a Burra Sahib Baha dur!” 

At the end of the first day Punch demanded to be 
set down in England, which he was certain must be 
close at hand. Next day there was a merry breeze, 
and Punch was very sick. “ When I come back to 
Bombay,” said Punch on his recovery, “I will come 
by the road—in a broom-gharri. This is a very 
naughty ship.” 

The Swedish boatswain consoled him, and he 
modified his opinions as the voyage went on, There 


172 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


was so much to see and to handle and ask questions 
about that Punch nearly forgot the ayah and Meeta 
and the hamal, and with difficulty remembered a 
few words of the Hindustani, once his second- 
speech. 

But Judy was much worse. The day before the 
steamer reached Southampton, Mamma asked her if 
she would not like to see the ayah again. Judy’s 
blue eyes turned to the stretch of sea that had 
swallowed all her tiny past, and she said :—“ Ayah / 
What ayah ?” 

Mamma cried over her and Punch marveled. It 
was then that he heard for the first time Mamma’s 
passionate appeal to him never to let Judy forget 
Mamma. Seeing that Judy was young, ridiculously 
young, and that Mamma, every evening for four 
weeks past, had come into the cabin to sing her and 
Punch to sleep with a mysterious tune that he called 
“Sonny, my soul,” Punch could not understand 
what Mamma meant. But hestrove to do his duty; 
for, the moment Mamma left the cabin, he said to 
Judy :—“ Ju, you bemember Mamma?” 

“?Torse I do, ” said Judy. 

“Then ay bemember Mamma, ’r eee I won’t 
give you the paper ducks that the red-haired Cap- 
tain Sahib cut out for me.” 

So Judy promised always to “ bemember 
Mamma.” 

Many and many a time was Mamma’s command 
laid upon Punch, and Papa wouldsay the same thing 
with an insistence that awed the child. 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 173 


“ You must make haste and learn to write, Punch,” 
said Papa, “and then you'll be able to write letters 
to us in Bombay.” 

“J’ll come into your room,” said Punch, and Pare 
choked. 

Papa and Mamma were always choking in those 
days. If Punch took Judy to task for not “ bemem- 
bering,” they choked. If Punch sprawled on the 
sofa in the Southampton lodging-house and sketched 
his future in purple and gold, they choked ; and so 
they did if Judy put up her mouth for a kiss. 

Through many days all four were vagabonds on 
the face of the earth :—Punch with no one to give 
orders to, Judy too young for anything, and Papa 
and Mamma grave, distracted, and choking. 

“ Where,” demanded Punch, wearied of a loath- 
some contrivance on four wheels with a mound of 
luggage atop— where is our broom-gharri ? This 
thing talks so much that J can’t talk. Where is our 
own broom-gharri ?” When I was at Bandstand 
before we comed away, I asked Inverarity Sahib 
why he was sitting in it, and he said it was his own. 
And I said, ‘I will gzve it you ’—I like Inverarity 
Sahib—and I said, ‘Can you put your legs through 
the pully-wag loops by the windows?’ And In- 
verarity Sahib said No, and laughed. J can put 
my legs through the pully-wag loops. I can put 
my legs through these pully-wag loops. Look! Oh, 
Mamma’s crying again! I didn’t know I wasn’t 
not to do so.” 

Punch drew his legs out of the loops of the four- 


174 BAA BAA, “BLACK SHEEP. 


wheeler: the door opened and he slid to the Barth, ae 
in a cascade of parcels, at the door of an austere — 
little villa whose gates bore the legend “Downe ~ 
Lodge.” Punch gathered himself together and eyed 

the house with disfavor. It stood ona sandy road, 
and a cold wind tickled his knickerbockered legs. __ 

“Let us ay away,” said Punch. “This is not a — 
pretty place.” 

But Mamma and Papa and J ady had quitted the 
cab, and all the luggage was being taken into the 
house. At the doorstep stood a woman in black, 
and she smiled largely, with dry chapped lips. Be-— 
hind her was a man, big, bony, gray, and lame as — 
to one leg—behind him a boy of twelve, black- 
haired and oily in appearance. Punch surveyed 
the trio, and advanced without fear, ashe had been __ 
pod to do in Bombay when pallens came and 
he happened to be playing in the veranda. _ 

“How do you do?” said he. “ I am Punch. ee 
But they were all looking at the luggage—all ex- 
cept the gray man, who shook hands with Punch 
and said he was “a smart little fellow.” There 
was much running about and banging of boxes, — 
and Punch ‘ourled: himself up on the sofa in the - 
dining-room and considered things. 

“JT don’t like these people,’ said Punch. “But — 
never mind. We'll goaway soon. We havealways — 
went away soon from everywhere. I wish we was 
gone back to Bombay soon.” s os 

The wish bore no fruit. For six days Mamma 
- wept at intervals, and showed the woman in black 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 175 


all Punch’s clothes—a liberty which Punch re- 
sented. “But p’raps she’s a new white ayah,” he 
thought. “I’m to call her Antirosa, but she doesn’t 
call me Sahib. She says just Punch,” he confided 
toJudy. “ What is Antirosa?”’ 

Judy didn’t know. Neither she nor Punch had 
heard anything of an animal called an aunt. Their 
world had been Papa and Mamma, who knew every- 
thing, permitted everything, and loved everybody— 
even Punch when he used to go into the garden at 
Bombay and fill his nails with mold after the 
weekly nail-cucting, becauseas he explained between 
two strokes of the slipper to his sorely tried Father, 
his fingers “ felt so new at the ends.” 

In an undefined way Punch judged it advisable 
to keep both parents between himself and the 
woman in black and the boy in black hair. He did 
not approve of them. He liked the gray man, who 
had expressed a wish to be called “ Uncleharri.”’ 
They nodded at each other when they met, and the 
gray man showed him a little ship with rigging 
that took up and down. 

“She is a model of the Brisk—the little Brisk 
that was sore exposed that day at Navarino.” The 
gray man hummed the last words and fell into a rey- 
erie. ‘T’ll tell you about Navarino, Punch, when 
we gofor walks together ; and you mustn’t touch the 
ship, because she’s the Brisk.” 

Long before that walk, the first of many, was 
taken, they roused Punch and Judy in the chill 
dawn of a February morning to say Good-by; and 


176 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP, ey 


of all people in the wide earth to Papa and Mamma 
—both crying this time. Punch was very sleepy 
and Judy was cross. a 

“Don’t forget us,” pleaded Mamma. “Oh,my 
little son, don’t forget us, and see that Judyremem- 


2 ieee 


bers too.” : 


“ve told Judy to bemember,” said Punch, wrig- e 


_ giling, for his father’s beard tickled his neck. “ Dve 


told Judy—ten—forty—even thousand times. But | - 


Ju’s so young—quite a baby—isn’t she?” 


“Yes,” said Papa, * quite a baby, and you must — 


be good to Judy, and make haste to learn to write 
and—and—and ” 


Punch was back in his bed again. Judy was fast - 


asleep, and there was the rattle of a cab below. 
Papa and Mamma had goneaway. Not to Nassick ; 


that was across the sea. To some place much - 
nearer, of course, and equally of course they would _ 


return. They came back after dinner-parties, and 


Papa had come back after he had been toaplace 


called “The Snows,’ and Mamma with him, to 


Punch and Judy at Mrs. Inverarity’s house in 


Marine Lines. Assuredly they would come back 7 
again. So Punch fell asleep till the true morning, 


when the black-haired boy met him with the infor- 


mation that Papa and Mamma had goneto Bombay, 
and that he and Judy were to stay at Downe Lodge _ 
“forever.” Antirosa, tearfully appealed to for a — 
contradiction, said that Harry had spoken thetruth, 
and that it behooved Punch to fold up his clothes 
neatly on going to bed. Punch went out and wept 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 177 


bitterly with Judy, into whose fair head he had 
driven some ideas of the meaning of separation. 

When a matured man discovers that he has been 
deserted by Providence, deprived of his God, and 
cast without help, comfort, or sympathy, upon a 
world which is new and strange to hin, his despair, 
which may find expression, in evil-living, the writing 
of his experiences, or the more satisfactory diversion 
of suicide, is generally supposed to be impressive. 
A child, under exactly similar circumstances as for as 
its knowledge goes, cannot very well curse God and 
die. It howls till its nose is red, its eyes are sore 
and its head aches. Punch and Judy, through no 
fault of their own, had lost all their world. They 
sat in the hall and cried; the black-haired boy look- 
ing on from afar. 

The model of the ship availed nothing, though 
the gray man assured Punch that he might pull the 
rigging up and down as much as he pleased ; and 
Judy was promised free entry into the kitchen. 
They wanted Papa and Mamma gone to Bombay 
beyond the seas, and their grief while it lasted was 
without remedy. 

When the tears ceased the house was very still. 
Antirosa had decided it was better to let the chil- 
dren “have their cry out,” and the boy had gone to 
school. Punch raised his head from the floor and 
sniffed mournfully. Judy was nearly asleep. Three 
short years had not taught her how to bear sorrow 
with full knowledge. There was a distant, dull 


boom in the air—a repeated heavy thud. Punch 
12 


178 eax ‘BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 
knew that sound in Bombay in the Monsoat. It 
was the sea—the sea that must be traversed bef 2 @ 
any one could get to Bombay. as a 

“ Quick, Ju!” he cried, “ we’re close a the sea. 
I can hear it! Listen! That’s where they’ve wen 
P’raps we can catch them if we was in time. The 
didn’t mean to g° without us. They’ve only fo 
got.” ae Ciena 
iss, said Judy hens only forsee 
Less go to the sea.” | : 

The hall-door was open and so was the garden- 
gate. 

“It’s very, very big, this place,” he said: looline 
cautiously down the road, “ and we will get lost; 
but Z will find aman and order him to take me , 
back to my house—like I did in Bombay.” 

He took Judy by the hand, and the two fled ha: 7 
less in the direction of the cpie of the sea. Down 
Villa was almost the last of a range of newly built 
houses running out, through a chaos of brick-mounds, 
to a heath where gypsies occasionally camped and 
where the Garrison Artillery of Rocklington pra 
tised, There were few people to be seen, and the 
children might have been taken. for those of the sol-. 
diery who ranged far. Halfan hour the wearied little 
legs tramped across heath, potato-field, and sand- 
fae : | 

. Pso so tired,” said Judy, “ and Mamma will be 
angry.” 

“‘Mamma’s never angry. I suppose te 18 waiting 
at the sea now while Papa gets tickets. We'll find 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 179 


them and go along with. Ju, you mustn’t sit down. 
Only a little more and we’ll come to the sea. Ju, 
if you sit down [ll thmack you!” said Punch. 

They climbed another dune, and came upon the 
great gray sea at low tide. Hundreds of crabs 
were scuttling about the beach, but there was no 
trace of Papa and Mamma, not even of a ship upon 
the waters—nothing but sand and mud for miles 
and miles. 

And “ Uncleharri” found them by chance—very 
muddy and very forlorn—Punch dissolved in tears, 
but trying to divert Judy with an “ickle trab,” and 
Judy wailing to the pitiless horizon for “ Mamma, 
Mamma !”—and again “ Mamma!” 


THE SECOND BAG. 


Aut this time not a word about Black Sheep. 
He came later, and Harry the black-haired boy was 
mainly responsible for his coming. 

Judy—who could help loving little Judy ?—passed, 
by special permit, into the kitchen and thence 
straight to Aunty Rosa’s heart. Harry was Aunty 
Rtosa’s one child, and Punch was the extra boy 
about the house. There was no special place for 
him or his little affairs, and he was forbidden to 
sprawl on sofas and explain his ideas about the 
manufacture of this world and his hopes for his 
future. Sprawling was lazy and wore out sofas, 
and little boys were not expected to talk. They 


180 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


were talked to, and the talking to was intended for _ 


the benefit of their morals. As the unquestioned — 


despot of the house at Bombay, Punch could not ss 
quite understand how he came to be of no account Ss 


in this his new life. 


Harry might reach across the table andtake what 


he wanted; Judy might point and get what she 


wanted. Punch was forbidden to do either. The — 


eray man was his great hope and stand-by for — 


many months after Mamma and Papa left, and he 
had forgotten to tell Judy to ‘“‘bemember Mamma.” 


This lapse was excusable, because in the interval — 


he had-been introduced by Aunty Rosa to two very 
impressive things—an abstraction called God, the 
intimate friend and ally of Aunty Rosa, generally. 
believed to live behind the kitchen-range because it 
was hot there—and a dirty brown book filled with 
unintelligible dots and marks. Punch was always 
anxious to obligeeverybody. He, therefore, welded 
the story of the Creation on to what he could rec- 
ollect of his Indian fairy tales, and scandalized 
Aunty Rosa by repeating the result to Judy. It 


was a sin, a grievous sin, and Punch was talked to — 


for a quarter of an hour. He could not understand — 


where the iniquity came in, but was careful not to 
repeat the offense, because Aunty Rosa told him 


that God had heard every word he had said and — 
was very angry. If this were true why didn’t God 
come and say so, thought Punch, and dismissed the _ 


matter from his mind. Afterwards he learned to 


know the Lord as the only thing in the world more | 4 


e 


re, 
as 


ts <yN ; 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 181 


awful than Aunty Rosa—as a Creature that stood 
in the background and counted the strokes.of the 
cane. 

But the reading was, just then, a much more seri- 
ous matter than any creed, Aunty Rosa sat him 
upon a table and told him that A B meant ab. 

“Why?” said Punch. “A is a and B is bee. 
Why does A. B mean ab?” 

“ Because I tell you it does,” said Aunty Rosa, 
“and you’ve got to say it.” 

Punch said it accordingly, and for a month, 
hugely against his will, stumbled through the 
brown book, not in the least comprehending what 
it meant. But Uncle Harry, who walked much and 
generally alone, was wont to come into the nursery 
and suggest to Aunty Rosa that Punch should walk 
with him. He seldom spoke, but he showed Punch 
all Rocklington, from the mud-banks and the sand 
of the back-bay to the great harbors where ships 
lay atanchor, and the dockyards where the hammers 
were never still, and the marine-store shops, and 
the shiny brass counters in the Offices where Uncle 
Harry went once every three months with a slip of 
blue paper and received sovereigns in exchange ; 
for he held a wound-pension. Punch heard, too, 
from his lips the story of the battle of Navarino, 
where the sailors of the Fleet, for three days after- 
wards, were deaf as posts and could only sign to 
each other. ‘“ That was because of the noise of the 
guns,” said Uncle Harry, “and I have got the 
wadding of a bullet somewhere inside me now.” 


182 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


Punch regarded him with curiosity. He had 


not the least idea what wadding was, and his notion . 
of a bullet was a dockyard cannon-ball bigger than — 
his own head. How could Uncle Harry keep a © 


cannon-ball inside him? He was ashamed to ask, 
for fear Uncle Harry might be angry. 


Punch had never known what anger—real anger a 
—meant until one terrible day when Harry had 
taken his paint-box to paint a boat with, and Punch a 


_ had protested with a loud and lamentable voice. 
Then Uncle Harry had appeared on the scene and, 
muttering something about <‘ strangers’ children,” 


had with astick smitten the black-haired boy across _ 
the shoulders till he wept and yelled, and Aunty 
Rosa came in and abused Uncle Harry for cruelty — 
to his own flesh and blood, and Punch shuddered to | 

the tips of his shoes. “It wasn’t my fault,” he — 


explained to the boy, but both Harry and Aunty 


Rosa said that it was, and that Punch had told ; 
tales, and for a week there were no more walks - 


with Uncle Harry. 
But that week brought a ereat joy to Punch. 


He had repeated till he was thrice weary the 


statement that “the Cat lay on the Mat and the 
Rat came in.” 


“ Now I can truly read,” said Punch, “and now — 


I will never read anything in the world.” 

He put the brown book in the cupboard where 
his school-books lived and accidentally tumbled 
out a venerable volume, without covers, labeled 
Sharpe’s Magazine. There was the most porten- 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 183 


tous picture of a griffin on the first page, with 
verses below. The griffin carried off one sheep a 
day from a German village, tilla man came with 
a “falchion ” and split the griffin open. Goodness 
only knew what a falchion was, but there was 
the Griffin, and his history was an improvement 
upon the eternal Cat. 

“This,” said Punch, “ means things, and now I 
will know all about everything in all the world.” 
He read till the light failed, not understanding a 
tithe of the meaning, but tantalized by glimpses of 
new worlds hereafter to be revealed. 

“What isa‘falchion’? Whatisa ‘e-weelamb ’? 
What is a‘ base wssurper’? What is a ‘verdant 
me-ad’?” he demanded, with flushed cheeks, at 
_ bedtime, of the astonished Aunt Rosa 

“Say your prayers and go to sleep,” she replied, 
and that was all the help Punch then or afterwards 
found at her hands in the new and delightful exer- 
cise of reading. 

“ Aunt Rosa only knows about God and things 
like that,” argued Punch. ‘“ Uncle Harry will tell 
me.” 

The next walk proved that Uncle Harry could 
not help either; but he allowed Punch to talk, and 
even sat down on a bench to hear about the Griffin. 
Other walks brought other stories as Punch ranged 
further afield, for the house held large store of old 
books that no one ever opened—from Frank Fair- 
legh in serial numbers, and the earlier poems of 
Tennyson, contributed anonymously to Sharpe’s 


184 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. — 


Magazine, to ’62 Exhibition Catalogues, gay with 
colors and delightfully incomprehensible, and odd 
leaves of Gulliver’s Travels. 

As soon as Punch could string a few pot-hooks 
together, he wrote to Bombay, demanding by re- 
turn of post “all the books in all the world.” 
Papa could not comply with this modest indent, 
but sent Grimm’s Fairy Tales and a Hans Ander- 
sen. That was enough. If he were only left alone 
Punch could pass, at any hour he chose, into a land 
of his own, beyond reach of Aunty Jtosa and her 
God, Harry and his teasements, and Judy’s claims 
to be played with. : 


“Don’t disturve me, ’mreading. Go and play in 


the kitchen,” grunted Punch. “ Aunty Rosa lets 
you go there.” Judy was cutting her second teeth 
and was fretful. She appealedto Aunty Rosa, who 
descended on Punch. 

“T was reading,” he explained, “ reading a book. 
I want to read.” 

“ Yowre only doing that to show off,” said Aunty 
Rosa. ‘ But we'll see. Play with Judy now, and 
don’t open a book for a week.” 

Judy did not pass a very enjoyable playtime with 


Punch, who was consumed with indignation. There — 


was a pettiness at the bottom of the prohibition 
which puzzled him. 

“Tt’s what I like to do,” he said, “and she’s 
found out that and stopped me. Don’t ery, Ju—it 


wasn’t your fault—p/lease don’t cry, or she'll say I 


made you.” 


“ap i aig ts Bs a tig 19 aa ae” to 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 185 


Ju loyally mopped up her tears, and the two 
played in their nursery, a room in the basement and 
half underground, to which they were regularly 
sent after the midday dinner while Aunty Rosa 
slept. She drank wine—that is to say, something 
from a bottle in the cellaret—for her stomach’s 
sake, but if she did not fall asleep she would some- 
times come into the nursery to see that the chil- 
dren were really playing. Now bricks, wooden 
hoops, ninepins, and china-ware cannot amuse for- 
ever, especially when all Fairyland is to be won by 
the mere opening of a book, and, as often as not, 
Punch would be discovered reading to Judy or tell- 
ing her interminable tales. That was an offense in 
the eyes of the law, and Judy would be whisked off 
by Aunty Rosa, while Punch was left to play alone, 
“and be sure that I hear you doing it.” 

It was not a cheering employ, for he had to make 
a playful noise. At last, with infinite craft, he de- 
vised an arrangement whereby the table could be 
supported as to three legs on toy bricks, leaving the 
fourth clear to bring down on the floor. He could 
work the table with one hand and hold a book with 
the other. This he did till an evil day when Aunty 
Rosa pounced upon him unawares and told him that 
he was “ acting a lie.” : 

“Tf yow’re old enough to do that,” she said—her 
temper was always worst after dinner—“ you’re old 
enough to be beaten.” 

“But—?m—I’m not a animal!” said Punch 
aghast. He remembered Uncle Harry and the 


186. BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


stick, and turned white. Aunty Rosa had hidden 
a light cane behind her, and Punch was beaten then 
and there over the shoulders. It was a revelation — 
to him. The room-door was shut, and he was left — 
to weep himself into repentance and work out his 
own Gospel of Life. _ | 

Aunty Rosa, he argued, had the power to heat 
him with many stripes. It was unjust and cruel, 
and Mamma and Papa would never have allowed 
it. Unless perhaps, as Aunty Rosa seemed to im- 
ply, they had sent secret orders. In which case he 
was abandoned indeed. It would be discreet in the — 
future to propitiate Aunty Rosa, but, then again, 
even in matters in which he was innocent, he had 
been accused of wishing to “show off.’ He had 
“ shown off” before visitors when he had attacked 
a strange gentleman—Harry’s uncle, not his own— 
with requests for information about the Griffin and 
the falchion, and the precise nature of the Tilbury 
in which Frank Fairlegh rode—all points of para- 
mount interest which he was bursting to under- 
stand. Clearly it would not do to pretend to care 
for Aunty Rosa. 

At this point Harry entered and stood afar off, 
eying Punch, a disheveled heap in the corner of 
mae room, with disgust. S 

“ You're a liar—a young har,” said Harry, with 
great unction, “and you’re to tae tea down here 
because es not fit to speak to us. And you’re 
not to speak to Judy again till Mother gives you 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 187 


leave. Youll corrupt her. You're only fit to as- 
sociate with the servant. Mother says so.” 

Having reduced Punch to a second agony of 
tears, Harry departed up-stairs with the news that 
Punch was still rebellious. 

Uncle Harry sat uneasily in the dining-room. 
“ Damn it all, Rosa,’ said he at last, “ can’t you 
leave the child alone? He’s a good enough little 
chap when I meet him.” | 

“ He puts on his best manners with you, Henry,” 
said Aunty Rosa, “but [Pm afraid, Pm very 
much afraid, that he is the Black Sheep of the 
family.” 

Harry heard and stored up the name for future 
use. Judy cried till she was bidden to stop, her 
brother not being worth tears; and the evening 
concluded with the return of Punch to the upper 
regions and a private sitting at which all the blind- 
ing horrors of Hell were revealed to Punch with 
such store of imagery as Aunty Rosa’s narrow mind 
possessed. 

Most grievous of all was Judy’s round-eyed re- 
proach, and Punch went to bed in the depths of 
the Valley of Humiliation. He shared his room 
with Harry and knew the torture in store. For an 
hour and a half he had to answer that young gen- 
tleman’s question as to his motives for telling a lie, 
and a grievous lie, the precise quantity of punish- 
ment inflicted by Aunty Rosa, and had also to pro- 
fess his deep gratitude for such religious instruc- 
tion as Harry thought fit to impart. 


188 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. or 


From that day began the downfall of Punoh3 now : 
Black Sheep. ~ 
“ Untrustworthy in one thing, onda oe a 
all,” said Aunty Rosa, and Harry felt that Black 
Sheep was delivered nto his hands. He would 


such a liar. 

“T don’t know,” Punch would reply. es 
“Then don’t you think you ought to get up ant 
pray to ae for a new heart ¢” 

“ Y -yess.” a 

“Get out and pray, then!” And Punch would — 
get out of bed with raging hate in his heart against __ 
all the world, seen and unseen. He was always a 
tumbling into trouble. Harry had a knack of cross- 
examining him as to his day’s doings, which seldom 
failed to lead him, sleepy and savage, into half a 
dozen contnadicnone af ay reported to Aunty 
Rosa next morning. 

“ But it wasn’t a lie,’ Punch would begin, charg 
ing into a labored explanation that landed him more 
hopelessly in the mire. “I said that I didn’t say 
my prayers twice over in the day, and that was on 
Tuesday. OnceI did. I know I did, but Harry said 
I didn’t,” and so forth, till the tension brought tears, 
and he was dismissed fon the table in disgrace. 

“You usen’t to be as bad as this?” said J udy, 
awe-stricken at the catalogue of Black Sie 83 
crimes. ‘ Why are you so bad now?” — : 

“JT don’t know,” Black Sheep would reply. “ te 
not, if I only wasn’t bothered upside down. I knew 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 189 


what I did, and I want to say so; but Harry al- 
ways makes it out different somehow, and Aunty 
Rosa doesn’t believe a word I say. Oh, Ju! don’t 
you say I’m bad too.” 

~“ Aunty Rosa says you are,” said Judy. “She 
told the Vicar so when he came yesterday.” 

“Why does she tell all the people outside the 
house about me? It isn’t fair,” said Black Sheep. 
“When I was in Bombay, and was bad—dozng bad, 
not made-up bad like this—Mamma told Papa, and 
Papa told me he knew, and that was all. Outside 
people didn’t know too—even Meeta didn’t know.” 

“T don’t remember,” said Judy wistfully. “I 
was all little then. Mamma was just as fond of you 
as she was of me, wasn’t she?” 

“Course she was. So was Papa. So was every- 
body.” 

“Aunty Rosa likes me more than she does you. 
She says that you area Trial and a Black Sheep, 
and I’m not to speak to you more than I can help.” 

“ Always? Not outside of the times when you 
mustn’t speak to me at all?” 

Judy nodded her head mournfully. Black Sheep 
turned away in despair, but Judy’s arms were round 
his neck. 

“ Never mind, Punch,” she whispered. “TI wd 
speak to you just thesame aseverandever. You're 
my own own brother, though you are—though Aunty 
Rosa says you’re Bad, and Harry says yow’re a little 
coward. He says that if I pulled your hair hard, 
you'd cry.” 


190 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


“ Pull, then,” said Punch. 

Judy Billed gingerly. 2 

“Pull harder—as hard as you can! There! I 
don’t mind how much you pull it now. If you'll 
speak to me same as ever I’ll let you pull it as much 
as you like—pull it out if you like. But I knowif 
Harry came and stood by and made you do it I'd 
cry. 99 

So the two children sealed the compact with a 
kiss, and Black Sheep’s heart was cheered within him, 
and by extreme caution and careful avoidance of 
Harry he acquired virtue, and was allowed to read 


undisturbed for a week. Uncle Harry took him for 


walks and consoled him with rough tenderness, never 
calling him Black Sheep. “It’s good for you, Isup- 
pose, Punch,” he used tosay. “Let us sit down. 
I’m getting tired.” His steps, led him now not to 


the beach, but to the Cemetery of Rocklington, amid — 


the potato-fields. For hours the gray man would sit 
on a tombstone, while Black Sheep read epitaphs, 
and then with a sigh would stump home again. 


“T shall lie there soon,” said he to Black Sheep, | 


one winter evening, when his face showed white as 
a worn silver coin under the lights of the chapel- 
lodge. “ You needn’t tell Aunty Rosa.” 

A month later, he turned sharp round, ere half a 


morning walk was completed, and stumped back to 


the house. ‘ Put me to bed, Rosa,” he muttered. 


“T’ve walked my last. The wadding has found me ~ 


out.” 
They put him to bed, and for a ie the 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 191 


shadow of his sickness lay upon the house, and Black 
Sheep went to and fro unobserved. Papa had sent 
him some new books, and he was told to keep quiet. 
He retired into his own world, and was perfectly 
happy. Even at night his felicity was unbroken. 
He could le in bed and string himself tales of 
travel and adventure while Harry was down-stairs. 

“Uncle Harry’s going to die,” said Judy, who 
now lived almost entirely with Aunty Rosa. 

“Tm very sorry,” said Black Sheep soberly. 

“ He told me that a long time ago.” 

Aunty Rosa heard the conversation. ‘ Will noth- 
ing check your wicked tongue?” she said angrily. 
There were blue circles round her eyes. 

Black Sheep retreated to the nursery and read 
“Cometh up as a flower ” with deep and uncompre- 
hending interest. He had been forbidden to read it 
on account of its “sinfulness,”’ but the bonds of the 
Universe were crumbling, and Aunty Rosa was in 
great grief. 

“Tm glad,” said Black Sheep. ‘“She’s unhappy 
now. It wasn’t a lie, though. Zknew. He told 
me not to tell.” 

That night Black Sheep woke with astart. Harry 
was not in the room, and there was a sound of sob- 
bing on the floor. Then the voice of Uncle Harry, 
singing the song of the Battle of Navarino, cut 
through the darkness :— 


“Our vanship was the Asia— 
The Albion and Genoa!” 


192 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. . 


“ He’s setting well,” thought Black Shea, ee i ie 
knew the song through all its seventeen verses. But ee 
the blood. froze at his little heart as he thought. The — 
voice leapt an oe and rang shrill as a boatswain’s — 
pipe :— 

** And next came on the lovely Rose, 
The Philomel, her fire ship, closed, 


And the little Brisk was sore pee 
That day at N. avarino. q 


“That day at Navarino, Uncle Harry!” shouted — 
Black Sheep, half wild ate excitement and fear of — 
he knew not what. 

A door opened and Aunty Rosa screamed up the ‘ 
staircase :—“‘ Hush! For God’s sake hush, you little — - 
devil. Uncle Harry is dead /” oe a 


THE THIRD BAG. 


“JT wonprr what will happen to me now,” thought — 
Black Sheep, when the semi-pagan rites peculiar to 
the burial of the Dead in middle-class houses had” — 
been accomplished, and Aunty Rosa, awful in black 
crape, had returned to this life. “Idon’tthinkT’ve — 
done anything bad that she knows of. IsupposeI — 
willsoon. She will be very cross after Uncle Harry’s - 
dying, and Harry will be cross, too. I'll keep in the 
nursery.” . Bee 

Unfortunately for Punch’s plans, it was decided 
that he should be sent to a day-school which Harry 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 193 


attended. Thismeant a morning walk with Harry, 
and perhaps an evening one; but the prospect. of 
freedom in the interval was refreshing. “ Harry’ll 
tell everything I do, but I won’t do anything,” said 
Black Sheep. Fortified with this virtuous resolution, 
he went to school only to find that Harry’s version of 
his character had preceded him, and that life was a 
burden in consequence. He took stock of his asso- 
ciates. Some of them were unclean, some of them 
talked in dialect, many dropped their h’s, and there - 
were two Jews and a negro, or some one quite as 
dark, intheassembly. “ That’sahubshz,” said Black 
Sheep to himself. “Even Meeta used to laugh at a 
hubshi. I don’t think this is a proper place.” He 
was indignant for at least an hour, till he reflected 
that any expostulation on his part would be by Aunty 
Rosa construed into “showing off,” and that Harry 
would tell the boys. : 

‘“‘ How do you like school?” said Aunty Rosa at 
the end of the day. 

“JT think it is a very nice place,” said Punch, 
quietly. 

“T suppose you warned the boys of Black Sheep’s 
character ?” said Aunty Rosa to Harry. 

“ Oh, yes,” said the censor of Black Sheep’s morals. 
“They know all about him.” 

“Tf Twas with my father,” said Black Sheep, stung 
to the quick, “I shouldn’t speak to those boys. He 
wouldn’t let me. They live in shops. I saw them 
go into shops—where their fathers live and sell 

things.” 
: 13 


194 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


‘“You’re too good for that school, are you?” said 
Aunty Rosa, with a bitter smile. 

“You ought to be grateful, Black Sheep, that those 
boys speak to you at all. It isn’t every school that 
takes little lars.” 

Harry did not fail to make much capital out of 
Black Sheep’s ill-considered remark ; with the result 
that several boys, including the Awbshi, demon- 
trated to Black Sheep the eternal equality of the 
human race by smacking his head, and his consola- 
tion from Aunty Rosa was that it “ served him right 
for being vain.” He learned, however, to keep his 
opinions to himself, and by propitiating Harry in 
carrying books and the like, to secure a little peace. 
His existence was not too joyful. From nine to twelve 
- he was at school, and from two to four, except on 


Saturdays. In the evenings he wassent down into _ | 


the nursery to prepare his lessons for the next day, 
and every night came the dreaded cross-questionings _ 
at Harry’s hand. Of Judy he saw but little. She was 
deeply religious—at six years of age religion is easy 
to come by—and sorely divided between her natural 
love for Black Sheep and her love for Aunty Rosa, 
who could do no wrong. 

As time went on and.the memory of Papa and _ 
Mamma, became wholly overlaid by the unpleasant — 
task of writing them letters, under Aunty Rosa’s 
eye, each Sunday, Black Sheep forgot what manner — 
of life he had led in the beginning of things. Even 
Judy’s appeals to “try and remember about Bom- 
bay” failed to quicken him. | 


~ 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 195 


“T can’t remember,” he said. “I know I used to 
give orders and Mamma kissed me.” 

“ Aunty Rosa will kiss you if you are good,” 
pleaded Judy. 

“Ugh! I don’t want to be kissed by Aunty 
Rosa. She’d say I was doing it to get something 
more to eat.” 

The weeks lengthened into months, and the holi- 
days came; but just before the holidays Black Sheep 
fell into deadly sin. 

Among the many boys whom Harry had incited 
to “punch Black Sheep’s head because he daren’t 
hit back,” was one more aggravating than the rest, 
who, in an unlucky moment, fell upon Black Sheep 
when Harry was not near. The blows stung, and 
Black Sheep struck back at random with all the 
power at his command. The boy dropped and 
whimpered. Black Sheep was astounded at his own 
act, but, feeling the unresisting body under hin, 
shook it with both his hands in blind fury and then 
began to throttle his enemy ; meaning honestly toslay 
him. There wasa scuffle, and Black Sheep was torn 
off the body by Harry and some colleagues, and cuffed 
home tingling but exultant. Aunty Rosa was out: 
pending her arrival, Harry sent himself to lecture 
Black Sheep on the sin of murder—which he de- 
scribed as the offense of Cain. 

“Why didn’t you fight him fair? What did 
you hit him when he was down for, you little cur?” 

Black Sheep looked up at Harry’s throat and then 
at a knife on the dinner-table. 


196 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


ae! dont understand,’ wearily. ‘“ Vou always : 
set him on me and told me I was a coward when I — 
blubbed. Will you leave me alone until Aunty Rosa 
comes in? She'll beat me if you tell her I ought to 
be beaten ; so it’s all ee 2 
pee is all wrong,” ead Harry, mipistertale 
“You nearly killed him, and I shouldn’t wonder if — 
De dies? 3 a 
“ Will he die?” said Black Sheep. : 
“T dare say,” said Harry, “and then youl be 
hanged.” : 
“All right,” said Black Sheep, possessing hited 
self of the table-knife. ‘Then Pll kill you now. — 
You say things and do thingsand . . . and[f © 
don’t know how things happen, and you never lye 
me alone—and I don’t care what happens!” ; 
He ran at the boy with the knife, and Harry fled : 
up-stairs to his room, promising Black Sheep the 
finest thrashing in the world when Aunty Rosa re- — 
turned. Black Sheep sat at the bottom of the stairs, 
the table-knife in his hand, and wept for that he 
had not killed Harry. The servant-girl came up 
from the kitchen, took the knife away and consoled — 
him. But Black Bie was beyond consolation. He 
would be badly beaten by Aunty Rosa; then there — 
would be another beating at Harry’s iad then 
Judy would not be allowed to speak to him ; ; then 
the tale would be told at school and then . . . 
There was no one to help and no one to care, and 
the best way out of the business was by death. A 
knife would hurt, but Aunty Rosa had told him, a 


eed 


paar- 2 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. iS f 


year ago, that if he sucked paint he would die. He 
went into the nursery, unearthed the now disused 
Noah’s Ark, and sucked the paint off as many an- 
imals as remained. It tasted abominable, but he 
had licked Noah’s Dove clean by the time Aunty 
Rosa and Judy returned. He went up-stairs and 
greeted them with :—“ Please, Aunty Rosa, I believe 
[ve nearly killed a boy at school, and I’ve tried to 
kill Harry, and when you’ve done all about God and 
Hell, will you beat me and get it over?” 

The tale of the assault as told by Harry could 


only be explained on the ground of possession by 


the Devil. Wherefore Black Sheep was not only 
most excellently beaten, once by Aunty Rosa and 
once, when thoroughly cowed down, by Harry, but 
he was further prayed for at family prayers, to- 
gether with Jane who had stolen a cold rissole from 
the pantry and snuffled audibly as her enormity 
was brought before the Throne of Grace. Black 
Sheep was sore and stiff, but triumphant. He would 
die that very night and be rid of them all. No, he 
would ask for no forgiveness from Harry, and at 
bedtime would stand no questioning at Harry’s 
hands, even though addressed as “ Young Cain.” 

“‘T’ve been beaten,” said he, “and I’ve done other 
things. I don’t care what Ido. If you speak to 
me to-night, Harry, I’ll get out and try to kill you. 
Now you can kill me if you like.” 

Harry took his bed into the spare-room, and Black 
Sheep lay down to die. 

It may be that the makers of Noah’s Arks know 


198 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


that their animals are likely to find their way into 
young mouths, and paint them accordingly. Cer- 


tain it is that the common, weary next morning — 


broke through the windows and found Black Sheep 
quite well and a good deal ashamed of himself, 
‘but richer by the knowledge that he could, in 
extremity, secure himself against Harry for the 
future. = 

When he descended to breakfast on the first day 
of the holidays, he was greeted. with the news that 
Harry, Aunty Rosa and Judy were going away to 
Brighton, while Black Sheep was to stay in the house — 
with the servant. His latest outbreak suited 
Aunty Rosa’s plans admirably. It gave her good 
excuse for leaving the extra boy behind. Papa in 
Bombay, who really seemed to know a young sin- 
ner’s wants to the hour, sent, that week, a package 
of new books. And with these and the society of 
Jane on board wages, Black Sheep was left alone — 
for a month. | 

The books lasted for ten days. They were eaten 
too quickly in long gulps of four-and-twenty hours 
at atime. Then came days of doing absolutely noth- 
ing, of dreaming dreams and marching imaginary 
armies up and down stairs, of counting the number 
of banisters, and of measuring the length and breadth 
of every room in hand-spans—fifty down the side, 
thirty across and fifty back again. Janemade many 
friends, and, after receiving Black Sheep’s assurance 
that he would not tell of her absence, went out daily 
for long hours. Black Sheep would follow the rays 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 199 


of the sinking sun from the kitchen to the dining- 
room and thence upward to his own bedroom until 


all was gray dark, and he ran down to the kitchen 


fire and read by its light. He was happy in that 
he was left alone and could read as much as he 
pleased. But, later, he grew afraid of the shadows 
of window-curtains and the flapping of doors and 
the creaking of shutters. He went out into the 
garden, and the rustling of the laurel bushes fright- 
ened him. 

He was glad when they all returned—Aunty Rosa, 
Harry and Judy—full of news and Judy laden with 
gifts. Who could help loving loyal little Judy! 
In return for all her merry babblement, Black Sheep 
confided to her that the distance from the hall 
door to the top of the first landing was exactly one 
hundred and eighty-four hand-spans. He had found 
it out himself. 

Then the old life recommenced ; but with a differ- 
ence and anew sin. To his other iniquities Black 
Sheep had now added a phenomenal clumsiness— 


was as unfit to trust in action as he was in word, 


He himself could not account for spilling every- 
thing he touched, upsetting glasses as he put his 
hand out, and bumping his head against doors that 
were manifestly shut. There was a gray haze upon 
all his world, and it narrowed month by month, 
until at last it left Black Sheep almost alone with 


the flapping curtains that were so like ghosts, and 


the nameless terrors of broad daylight that were 
only coats on pegs after all. 


200 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


Holidays came and _ holidays wore and Blade’ 
Sheep was taken to see many people whose faces 


were all exactly alike; was beaten when occasion — = 


demanded, and cortured by Harry on all possible soe 


casions, but defended by Judy through good and — 
evil report, though she thereby drew upon herself 
the wrath of Aunty Rosa. a8 

The weeks were interminable, and Papaand Mame ae 
ma were clean forgotten. ae had left school and 
was a clerk in a Banking Office. Freed from his — 
presence, Black Sheep resolved that he should no 
longer be deprived of his allowance of pleasure- 
reading. Consequently, when he failed at school he 
reported that all was well, and conceived a large con- 
tempt for Aunty Rosa, as he saw how easy it was — 
to deceive her. “She says I’m a little liar when I 
don’t tell lies, and now I do, she doesn’t know,” 
thought Black Sheep. Aunty Rosa had credited him — 
in the past with petty cunning and stratagem that 
had never entered into his head. By the light of — 
the sordid knowledge that she had revealed to him 
he paid her back full tale. Ina household where : 
the most innocent of his motives, his natural yearn- : 
ing for a little affection, had Gae interpreted intoa~ 
desire for more bread and jam or to ingratiate him- 
self with strangers and so put Harry into the back- 
ground, his work was easy. Aunty Rosa could pen- 
etrate certain kinds of hypocrisy, but not all. He 
set his child’s wits against hers and was no mor 
beaten. It grew monthly more and more of a 
trouble to read the schoolbooks, and even the page 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 201 


of the open-print story-books danced and were dim. 
So Black Sheep brooded in the shadows that fell 
about him and cut him off from the world, inventing 
horrible punishments for “dear Harry,” or plotting 
another line of the tangled web of deception that he 
wrapped round Aunty Rosa. 

Then the crash came and the cobwebs were broken. 
It was impossible to foresee everything. Aunty Rosa 
made personal inquiries as to Black Sheep’s progress 
and received information that startled her. Step 
by step, with a delight as keen as when she con- 
victed an underfed housemaid of the theft of cold 
meats, she followed the trail of Black Sheep’s delin- 
quencies. For weeks and weeks, in order to escape 
banishment from the bookshelves, he had made a 
fool of Aunty Rosa, of Harry, of God, of all the 
world! Horrible, most horrible, and evidence of an — 
utterly depraved mind. 

Black Sheep counted the cost. “It will only be 
one big beating and then she'll put acard with ‘ Liar’ 
on my back, same as she did before. Harry will 
whack me and pray for me, and she will pray for 
me at prayers and tell me I’m a Child of the Devil 
and give me hymns to learn. But I’ve done all my 
reading and she never knew. She’ll say she knew all 
along. She’s an old liar too,” said he. 

For three days Black Sheep was shut in his own 
_ bedroom—to prepare his heart. “That means two 
beatings. One at school and one here. Zhat one 
will hurt most.” And it fell even as he thought. 
He was thrashed at school before the Jews and the 


202 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


hubshi, for the heinous crime of bringing home false 
reports of progress. He was thrashed at home by 


Aunty Rosa on the same count, and then the plac- : 


ard was produced. Aunty Rosa stitched it between 
his shoulders and bade him go for a walk with it 
upon him. 

“Tf you make me do that,” said Black Sheep very 


quietly, “I shall burn this house down, and perhaps 


Vl kill you. I don’t know whether I can kill you— 
yowreso bony—but Pll try.” 

No punishment followed this blasphemy, though 
Black Sheep held himself ready to work his way to 


Aunty Rosa’s withered throat, and grip there tillhe 


was beaten off. Perhaps Aunty Rosa was afraid, 
for Black Sheep, having reached the Nadir of Sin, 
bore himself with a new recklessness. 

In the midst of all the trouble there came a vis- 


itor from over the seas to Downe Lodge, who knew ~ 


Papa and Mamma, and was commissioned to see 
Punch and Judy. Black Sheep was sent to the 
drawing-room and charged into a solid tea-table 
laden with china. 

“Gently, gently, little man,” said the visitor, turn- 


ing Black Sheep’s face to the lightslowly. “ What’s 


that big bird on the palings?” 
‘‘ What bird ?” asked Black Sheep. 
The visitor looked deep down into Black Shean S 


eyes for half a minute, and then said suddenly :— 


“Good God, the little chap’s nearly blind !” 


It was a most business-like visitor. He gaveorders — 


on his own responsibility, that Black Sheep was 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 203 


not to go to school or open a book until Mamma 
came home. “She'll be here in three weeks, as 
you know, of course,” said he, “and I’m Inverarity 
Sahib. I ushered youinto this wicked world, young 
man, and a nice use you seem to have made of your 
time. You must do nothing whatever. Can you 
do that ?” 

“Yes,” said Punch ina dazed way. He had 
known that Mamma was coming. There was a 
chance, then, of another beating. Thank Heaven 
Papa wasn’t coming too. Aunty Rosa had said of 
late that he ought to be beaten by a man. 

For the next three weeks Black Sheep was strictly 
allowed to do nothing. He spent his time in the old 
nursery looking at the broken toys, for all of which 
account must be rendered to Mamma. Aunty Rosa 
hit him over the hands if even a wooden boat were 
broken. But that sin was of small importance com- 
pared to the other revelations, so darkly hinted at by 
Aunty Rosa. “ When your mother comes, and 
hears what I have to tell her, she may appreciate 
you properly,” she said grimly, and mounted guard 
over Judy lest that small maiden should attempt 
to comfort her brother, to the peril of her own 
soul. 

And Mamma came—in a four-wheeler and a flut- 
ter of tender excitement. Such a Mamma! She 
was young, frivolously young, and beautiful, with 
delicately flushed cheeks, eyes that shone like stars, 
and a voice that needed no additional appeal of 
outstretched arms to draw little ones to her heart. 


204. BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. _ 


eo 


Judy ran straight to her, but Black Sheep heart 
Could this wonder be “ show off”? She would — 
not put out her arms when she knew of his crimes. 
Meantime was it possible that by fondling she — 
wanted to get anything out of Black Sheep? Only — 
all his love and all his confidence ; but that Black © 
Sheep did not know. Aunty Rosa withdrew and 
left Mamma, kneeling between her children, half 
laughing, half crying, in the very hall where Punch » 
and J ate had wept hee years before. ‘3 
‘ Well, chicks, do you remember me?” is 
SON O,7 Said). see ey “but I said ‘God ples 
Papa aan Mamma’ ev’vy night.” ote 
“A little,” said Black Sheep. “ Remunber 
I wrote to you oes week, anyhow. That isn’t 
to show off, but ’cause of what comes after : 
wards.” : 
“What comes after! What should come afte 
my darling boy?” And she drew him to her again. — 
He came wwiosadly , with many angles. “N ot 
used to pettin g,” said the quick Mother soul, “ i 
girl is.’ fe 
“ She’s too little to hurt any one, : chonate Black 
Sheep, ‘‘and if I said I’d kill her, she’d be afraid 
I wonder what Aunty Rosa will tell. Xe 
There was a constrained late dinner, at the end a 
which Mamma picked up Judy and put her to bed — 
with endearments manifold. Faithless little Judy 
had shown her defection from Aunty Rosa already. 
And that lady resented it bitterly. Black — 
rose to leave the room. 


- 
“4 
Eos 
oe 
‘er 
oe 
at 
x 

$3 
‘ 
Soi 
5 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 205 


“Come and say good-night,” said Aunty Rosa, 
offering a withered cheek. 

“Huh!” said Black Sheep. “I never kiss you, 
and ’'m not going to show off. Tell that woman 
what [ve done, and see what she says.” 

Black Sheep climbed into bed feeling that he had 
lost Heaven after a glimpse through the gates. In 
half an hour “ that woman” was bending over him. 
Black Sheep flung up his right arm. It wasn’t fair 
to come and hit him inthedark. Even Aunty Rosa 
never tried that. But no blow followed. 

“ Are you showing off? JI won’t tell you anything 
more than Aunty Rosa has, and she doesn’t know 
everything,” said Black Sheep as clearly as he could 
for the arms round his neck. 

“Oh, my son—my little, little son! It was my 
fault—my fault, darling—and yet how could we help 
it? Forgive me, Punch.” The voice died outin a 
broken whisper, and two hot tears fell on Black 
Sheep’s forehead. 

“Has she been making you cry too?” he asked. 
“You should see Jane cry. But yov’e nice, 
and Jane is a Born Liar—Aunty Rosa says 
so.” 

“Hush, Punch, hush! My boy, don’t talk like 
that. Try to love me a little bit—a little bit. You 
don’t know how I want it. Punch-daba, come back 
tome! I[ am your Mother—your own Mother— 
and never mind the rest. I know—yes, I know, 
dear. It doesn’t matter now. Punch, won’t you 
care for me a little?” 


206 BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


It is astonishing how much petting a big boy of | 


ten can endure when he is quite sure that there is 
no one to laugh at him. Black Sheep had never 
been made much of before, and here was this beau- 


tiful woman treating him—Black Sheep, the Child 


of the Devil and the Inheritor of Undying Flame— ‘ 


as though he were a small God. 


“T care for you a great deal, Mother dear,” he ‘. 


whispered at last, “and I’m glad you’ve come back; 


but are you sure Aunty Rosa told you every- — 


thing ?” Se 
“Everything. What doesitmatter? But—” the 


voice broke with a sob that was also laughter— — 
“Punch, my poor, dear, half-blind darling, don’t — 


you think it was a little foolish of you?” 
“No. It saved a lickin’.” 
Mamma shuddered and slipped away in the dark- 


ness to write a long letter to Papa. Here isan ex- 


tract :— 


Judy is a dear, plump little prig who ~ 


adores the woman, and wears with as much gravity 


as her religious opinions—only eight, Jack !—a ven- 


erable horsehair atrocity which she calls her Bustle! 
I have just burnt it, and the child is asleep in my bed 


as I write. She will come to me at once. Punch I 
cannot quiteunderstand. He is well nourished, but — 
seems to have been worried into a system of small — 


deceptions which the woman magnifies into deadly 


sins. Don’t you recollect our own up-bringing, dear, — 


when the Fear of the Lord was so often the begin- 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 207 


ning of falsehood? I shall win Punch to me before 
long. Lam taking the children away into the country 
to get them to know me, and, on the whole, I am 
content, or shall be when you come home, dear boy, 
and then, thank God, we shall be all under one roof 
again at last ! 


Three months later Punch, no longer Black Sheep, 
has discovered that he is the veritable owner of a 
real, live, lovely Mamma, who is also a sister, com- 
forter, and friend, and that he must protect her till 
the Father comes home. Deception does not. suit 
the part of a protector, and, when one can do any- 
thing without question, where is the use of decep- 
tion ? 

“ Mother would be awfully cross if you walked 
through that ditch,’ says Judy, continuing a con- 
versation. 

“Mother’s never angry,” says Punch. “She'd 
just say, ‘ You’re a little pagal ; ’ and that’s not nice, 
but Pll show.” 

Punch walks through the ditch and mires himself 
to the knees. “Mother, dear,” he shouts, “I’m 
just as dirty as I can pos-szb-ly be! eee 

“Then change your clothes as quickly as you pos- 
sib-ly can!” rings out Mother’s clear voice from the 
house. “ And don’t be a little pagal /” 

“There! Told you so,” says Punch. “It’s all 
different now, and we are just as much Mother’s as 
if she had never gone.” 

Not altogether, O Punch, for when young lips 


oe ea a Despatr, all the Love. int 


- wholly take. away that knowledge 


torn darkened eee for a pe 


THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE 
ORTHERIS. 


Oh! Where would I be when my froat was dry? 

Oh! Where would I be when the bullets fly ? 

Oh! Where would I be when I come to die? 
Why, 


Somewheres anigh my chum. 
If ’e’s liquor ’e’ll give me some, 
If I’m dyin’ ’e’ll ’old my ’ead, 
An’ ’e’ll write ’°em ’?Ome when I’m dead.— 
Gawd send us a trusty chum! 
Barrack Room Ballad. 


My friends Mulvaney and Ortheris had gone on 
a shooting expedition for one day. Learoyd was 
still in hospital, recovering from fever picked up in 
Burma. They sent me an invitation to join them, 
and were genuinely pained when I brought beer— 
almost enough beer to satisfy two privates of the 
Tine-... ... and Me. 

“<*Twasn’t for that we bid you welkim, Sorr,” 
said Mulvaney, sulkily. “’Twas for the pleasure 
av your comp’ny.” 

Ortheris came to the rescue with :—“ Well, ’e 


won’t be none the worse for bringin’ liquor with 
14 209 


210 THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. : 


’m, We ain’t a file o’ Dooks. We’re bloomin’ 
Tommies, ye cantankris Hirishman ; an’ ‘ere’ s your 
very good vealth |” 

We shot all the forenoon, and killed two pariah- 
dogs, four green parrots, sitting, one kite by the 
burning-ghaut, one snake flying, one mud-turtle, 
and eight crows. Game was plentiful. Then we 
sat down to tiffin—“bull-mate an’ bran-bread,” — 
Mulvaney called it—by the side of the river, and 
took pot shots at the crocodiles in the intervals of 
cutting up the food with our only pocket-knife. 
Then we drank up all the beer, and threw the 
bottles into the water and fired at them. After 
that, we eased belts and stretched ourselves on the 
warm sand and smoked. We were too lazy to con- 
tinue shooting. 

Ortheris heaved a big sigh, as he lay on his — 
stomach with his head between his fists. Then he 
swore quietly into the blue sky. | 

“ }F what’s that for?” said Mulvaney. “ Have ye 
not drunk enough?” | 

“Tott’nim Court Road, an’ a gal I fancied there. 
Wot’s the good of sodgerin’ ?” : 

“ Orthris, me son,” said Mulvaney, hastily, “’tis 
more than likely ce got throuble in your inside 
with the beer. I feel that way mesilf whin my — 
liver gets rusty.” 

Ortheris went on slowly, not heeding ve inter- 
ruption :— 

“Tm a Tommy—a_ bloomin’, eight-anna, dog- 
stealin’ Tommy, with a number instead of a decent 


THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. 211 


name. Wot’sthe good o’ me? IfI’ad a stayed at 
’Ome, I might a’ married that gal and a’ kep’ a little 
shorp in the *Ammersmith *Igh.—‘ 8. Orth’ris, Prac- 
ti-cal Taxi-der-mist.’ With a stuff? fox, like they 
’as in the Haylesbury Dairies, in the winder, an’ a 
little case of blue and yaller glass heyes, an’ a little 
wife to call, ‘shorp!’ ‘shorp!’ when the door bell 
rung. As it Ais, ’m on’y a Tommy—a Bloomin’, 
Gawd-forsaken, Beer-swillin’ Tommy. ‘ Rest on 
your harms—versed. Stan’ at—hease ; Shun. 
’*Verse—harms. Right an’ lef’—tarrn. Slow— 
march. *Alt—front. Rest on your harms—’versed. 
With blank-cart-ridge—load.’. An’ that’s the end 
o me.” He was quoting fragments from Funeral 
Parties’ Orders. 

“Stop ut!” shouted Mulvaney. “ Whin you’ve 
fired into nothin’ as often as me, over a better man 
than yoursilf, you will not make a mock av thim 
orders. *Tis worse than whistlin’ the Dead March 
in barricks. An’ you full as a tick, an’ the sun cool, 
an’ allan’ all! I take shame for you. Youw’re no 
better than a Pagin—you an’ your firin’-parties an’ 
your glass-eyes. Won’t you stop ut, Sorr?” 

What could Ido! Could I tell Ortheris anything 
that he did not know of the pleasures of his life? 
I was not a Chaplain nor a Subaltern, and Ortheris 
had a right to speak as he thought fit. 

“Let him run, Mulvaney,” I said. “It’s the 
beer.” 

“No! °Tisn’t the beer,” said Mulvaney. “I 
know fwhat’s comin’, He’s tuk this way now an’ 


Na tieini Wi cay mek aT ft 


912 THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. aoe 


agin, an’ it’s bad—it’s bad—for ’m fond ay the a 
bhoy. ” Finn 
Indeed, Mulvaney seemed needlessly anxious; 
but I knew that he looked after Ortheris in a aN 
fatherly way. ie 
“Tet me talk, let me talk,” said Orthers aoe 
dreamily. “ Dion stop your parrit screamin’ of a 
‘ot day, when the cage is a-cookin’ ’is pore little 
pink toes orf, Mulvaney ?” i 
“Pink toes! D’ye mane to say you’ve pink toes ~ 
under your bullswools, ye blandanderin’,’—Mul- . — 
vaney gathered himself together for a terrific de- 
nunciation—“ school-misthress! Pink toes! How — 
much Bass wid the label did that ravin’ child dhrink?” © ce 
“?Tain’t Bass,” said Ortheris. “It’s a bitterer o. 
beer nor that. It’s ? ome-sickness ! ”’ . 
“Hark to him! An’ he’s goin? Home in te = 
Sheraprs in the inside av four months!” = 
“J don’t care. It’s all one to me. "OW d’you 
know I ain’t ’fraid 0’ dyin’ *fore I gets my papers?” me . 
He recommenced, in a sing-song voice, the Funeral e 
Orders. ee 
I had never seen this side of Ortheris’s ianecies = 
before, but evidently Mulvaney had, and attached 
serious importance to it. While Ortheris babbled, 
with his head on his arms, Mulvaney whispered to. 
me: : 
“ He’s always tuk this way whin he’s been checked __ 
overmuch by the childher they make Sarjints now- — . 
adays. That an’ havin’ nothin’ to do, I can't 
make ut out anyways.” 


THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. 213 


«Well, what does it matter? Let him talk him- 
self through.” 

Ortheris began singing a parody of “ The Ramrod 
Corps,” full of cheerful allusions to battle, murder 
and sudden death. He looked out across the river 
as he sang; and his face was quite strange to me. 
Mulvaney caught me by the elbow to ensure atten- 
tion. 

“Matthers? It matthers everything! ’Tis some 
sort av fit that’s on him. [ve seen ut. ’Twill 
hould him all this night, an’ in the middle av it, 
he’ll get out av his cot and go rakin’ in the rack for 
his ’couterments. Thin he’ll come over to me an’ 
say :--‘ Tm goin’ to Bombay. Answer for me in 
the mornin’. Thin me an’ him will fight as we’ve 
done before—him to go an’ me to hould him—an’ 
so we'll both come on the books for disturbin’ in 
barricks. Ive belted him, an’ I’ve bruk his head, 
an’ I’ve talked to him, but ’tis no manner av use 
whin the fit’s on him. He’s as good a bhoy as ever 
stepped whin his mind’s clear. I know fwhat’s 
comin’, though, this night in barricks. Lord send 
he doesn’t loose off whin I rise for to knock him 
down. Tis tha¢ that’s in my mind day an’ night.” 

This put the case in a much less pleasant light, 
and fully accounted for Mulvaney’s anxiety. He 
seemed to be trying to coax Ortheris out of the 
“fit” ; for he shouted down the bank where the 
boy was lying :— | 

“Listen now, you wid the ‘pore pink toes’ an’ 
the glass eyes! Did you shwim the Irriwaddy at 


214 THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS, ie 


night, behin’ me, as a bhoy shud ; or were you hidin’ 


under a bed, as you was at Ahmed Kheyl?” — 

This was at once a gross “insult and a direct lie, 
and Mulvaney meant it to bring on a fight. But 
Ortheris seemed shut up in some sort of a trance. 
He answered slowly, without a sign of irritation, in 
the same cadenced voice as he had used for his 
firing-party orders :— 

“ Hy swum the Irriwaddy in the night, as you 
know, for to take the town of Lungtungpen, nakid 
an’ without fear. and where I was at Ahmed 
Kheyl you know, and four bloomin’ Pathans know 


too. But that was summat to do, an’ I didn’t think 


o dyin’. Now I’m sick to go ’Ome—go ’Ome—go 
"Ome! No, I ain’t mammy sick, because my uncle 
brung me up, but I’m sick for London again; sick 


for the sounds of ’er; an’ the sights of ’er, and 


the stinks of ’er; orange-peel and hasphalte an’ gas 


comin’ in over Vaux’all Bridge. Sick for the rail — : 


goin’ down to Box ’Il], with your gal on your knee 
an’ a new clay pipe in your face. That, an’ the 
Stran’ lights where you knows every one, an’ the 
Cooper that takes you up is a old friend that tuk 
you up before, when you was a little, smitchy boy 
lying loose ’tween the Temple an’ the Dark Harches. 


No bloomin’ guard-mountin’, no bloomin’ rotten- 


stone, nor khaki, an’ yourself yourown master with 
a gal to take an’ see the Humaners practisin’ ahook- 
in’ dead corpses out of the Serpentine o’ Sundays. 
An’ I lef? all that for to serve the Widder beyond 


the seas where there ain’t no women and there ain’t. 


‘ 

a) 
a 
a 

be 

= 

% 


me Smite Ds 
ee sis 
a 


THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. 215 


no liquor worth ’avin’, and there ain’t nothin’ to 
see, nor do, nor say, nor feel, nor think. Lord love 
you, Stanley Orth’ris, but you're a bigger bloomin’ 
fool than the rest o’ the reg’ment and Mulvaney 
wired together! ‘There’s the Widder sittin’ at "Ome 
with a gold crown’d on ’er’ead; and ’ere am Hi, 
Stanley Orth’ris, the Widder’s property, a rottin’ 
Foo. !” 

His voice rose at the end of the sentence, and he 
wound up with a six-shot Anglo-Vernacular oath. 
Mulvaney said nothing, but looked at me as if he 
expected that I could bring peace to poor Ortheris’s 
troubled brain. 

I remembered once at Rawal Pindi having seen 
a man, nearly mad with drink, sobered by being 
made a fool of. Some regiments may know what I 
mean. I hoped that we might shake off Ortheris 
in the same way, though he was perfectly sober: 
So I said :— 

“What’s the use of grousing there, and speaking 
against The Widow ?” 
“JT didn’t!” said Ortheris. “S’elp me Gawd, I 
never said a word agin ’er, an’ I wouldn’t—not if I 

was to desert this minute!” 

Here was my opening. “ Well, you meant to, 
anyhow. What’s the use of cracking on for nothing ? 
Would you slip it now if you got the chance?” 

“On’y try me!” said Ortheris, jumping to his 
feet as if he had been stung. 

Mulvaney jumped too. “Fwhat are you going 
to do?” said he. 


216 THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. 


“Help Ortheris down to Bombay or Karachi, 


whichever he likes. You can report that he sepa-— 
rated from you before tiffin, and left his gun on the : 


bank here!” 


“Tm to report that—am I?” said Mulan | 
slowly. “Very well. If Orth’ris manes to desert 


now, and will desert now, an’ you, Sorr, who have 


been a friend to me an’ to him, will help him to ut, 
I, Terence Mulvaney, on my oath which ve never ~ 


bruk yet, will report as you say. But” 


Stanley Orth’ris, if ever I come across you agin!” 


here he — 
stepped up to Ortheris, and shook the stock of the 
fowling-piece in his face—“ your fists help you, — 


“T don’t care!” said Ortheris. “Im sick 0’ this 


dorg’s life. Give me a chanst. Don’t play with - 


mé, ,- Le’ me go!” 


: Strip, 2 said 1) and: Nee with me, and then 3 


I'll tell you what to do.” 


I hoped that the absurdity of this would check — 


Ortheris; but he had kicked off his ammunition 


boots and got rid of his tunic almost before I had — 


loosed my shirt-collar. Mulvaney gripped me by _~ 


the arm :— 
“The fit’s on him; the fit’s workin’ on him still. 


By my Honor and Sowl, we shall be accessiry to a — 


desartion yet; only twenty-eight days, as you say, 


Sorr, or fifty-six, but think o’ the shame—the black — 
shame to him an’ me!” Ihadneverseen Mulvaney — 


so excited. 


But Ortheris was quite calm, and, as soon as he 
had exchanged clothes with me, and I stood up 


xo 
=a 
oi 
ate $ 
Sa 
ae 
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Bs 
i: Oat 


‘ Rene Se EN y ; 
a ate oe * SN DS A ing ies 


UE if tara tu 


THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. 217 


a Private of the Line, he said shortly :—‘“‘ Now! 
Come on. What nex’? D’ye mean fair. What 
must I do to get out o’ this ’ere a Hell?” 

I told him that, if he would wait for two or three 
hours near the river, I would ride into the Station 
and come back with one hundred rupees. He 
would, with that money in his pocket, walk to the 
nearest side-station on the line, about five miles 
away,and would there take a first-class ticket for 
Karachi. Knowing that he had no money on him 
when he went out shooting, his regiment would not 
immediately wire to the seaports, but would hunt for 
him in the native villages near the river. Further, 
no one would think of seeking a deserter in a 
first-class carriage. At Karachi, he was to buy 
white clothes and ship, if he could, on a cargo- 
steamer. 

Here he broke in. If I helped him to Karachi, 
he would arrange all the rest. Then I ordered him 
to wait where he was until it’was dark enough for 
me to ride into the station without my dress being 
noticed. Now God in His wisdom has made the 
heart of the British Soldier, who is very often an 
unlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of a little child, 
in order that he may believe in and follow his offi- 
cers into tight and nasty places. He does not so 
readily come to believe in a “ civilian,” but, when 
he does, he believes implicitly and like a dog. I 
had had the honor of the friendship of Private Or- 
theris, at intervals, for more than three years, and 
we had dealt with each other as man by man, 


218 THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. 


Consequently, he considered that all my words were 3 


true, and not spoken lightly. 


Mulvaney and I left him in the high grass near — 


the river-bank, and went away, still keeping to the 


high grass, ee my horse. The shirt scratched i 


me how ibly.. 


We waited nearly two hours for the dusk to fall . 


and allow me to ride off. We spoke of Ortheris i in 


whispers, and strained our ears to catch any sound — 
from the spot. where we had left him. But we — 


heard nothing except the wind in the plume- 
grass. : 


“T’ve bruk his head,” said Mulvaney, earnestly, — 
“time an’ agin. I’ve nearly kilt him wid the belt, © 
an’ yet I can’t knock thim fits out ov his soft head. 
No! An’ he’s no# soft, for he’s reasonable an’ likely - 
by natur’. Fwhat is ut? Is ut his breedin’ which © 
is nothin’, or his edukashin which he niver got! You = 


that. think ye know things, answer me that.” 


Cir iv We tp ented rt niaed by Prk th ae 2S 


But I found no answer. I was wondering how . 
long Ortheris, in the bank of the river, would hold — 
out, and whether I should be forced to help him to — 


eee as I had given my word. 


Just as the dusk shut down and, with a very nary : 


heart, I was beginning to saddle up my horse, we = 


bead wild shouts from the river. 


The devils had departed from Private Sinuie a 


: 
Ortheris, No. 22639, B Company. The loneliness, - 
. 


the aisk: and the waiting had driven them out as | 


had hoped. We set off at the double and found — 
him plunging about wildly through the grass, with — 


“s 


THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS. 219 


his coat off—my coat off, I mean. He was calling 
for us like a madman. 3 | 

When we reached him, he was dripping with 
perspiration, and trembling like a startled horse. 
We had great difficulty in soothing him. He com- 
plained that he was in civilian kit, and wanted to 
tear my clothes off his body. I ordered him to 
strip, and we made a second exchange as quickly 
as possible. 

The rasp of his own “grayback” shirt and the 
squeak of his boots seemed to bring him to himself. 
He put his hands before his eyes and said :— 

“Wot was it? Iain’t mad, I ain’t sunstrook, an’ 
I’ve bin an’ gone an’ said, an’ bin an’ gone an’ done. 

. Wot ’ave I bin an’ done!” 

“Fwhat have you done?” said Mulvaney. 
“You've dishgraced yourself-—though that’s no 
matter. You've dishgraced B Comp’ny an’ worst 
av all, you’ve dishgraced J/e/ Me that taught you 
how for to walk abroad like a J/an—whin you was 
a dhirty little, fish-backed little, whimperin’ little 
recruity. As you are now, Stanley Orth’ris ! ” 

Ortheris said nothing for a while. -Then he un- 
slung his belt, heavy with the badges of half-a-dozen 
regiments that his own had lain with, and handed 


it over to Mulvaney. 


“Tm too little for to mill you, Mulvaney,” said 
he, “‘an’ you’ve strook me before ; but you can take 
an’ cut me in two with this ’ere if you like.” 

Mulvaney turned to me. 

““ Lave me talk to him, Sorr,” said Mulvaney. 


> 


oo mee ee 


THE 
STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 


‘Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house 
at home little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling 
and crying.” 

Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson. 


Tue polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, 
and dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among 
the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, was 
cleaning for me. 

“Does the Heaven-born want this ball?” said 
Imam Din, deferentially. 

The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; 
but of what use was a polo-ball to a khttmatgar ? 

“By Your Honor’s favor, I have a little son. He 
has seen this ball, and desires it to play with. Ido 
not want it for myself.” 

No one would for an instant accuse portly old 
Imam Din of wanting to play with polo-balls. He 
carried out the battered thing into the veranda; 
and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a 
patter of small feet, and the thud-thud-thud of the 
ball ete along the ground. Evidently the little 


222. °- THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 


. son had been waiting outside the door to secure his — 
treasure. But how had he managed to see that 
polo-ball ? 

Next day, coming back from office half an feat 
earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in 
the dining-room—a tiny, plump figure in a ridicu- 


lously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half- 


way down the tubby stomach. It wandered round _ 
the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as it 
took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was 
the “ little son.” : 

He had no business in my room, of course; but 
was so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he 


never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into — 
the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He 


sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes 
opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what 
was coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl — 
which reached the servants’ quarters far more 
quickly than any command of mine had ever done. 
In ten seconds Imam Din was in the dining-room. 
Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned to find — 
Imam Din admonishing the small sinner who was — 
using most of his shirt as a handkerchief. — 
2 This boy,” said Imam Din, judicially, “is a 
budinash, a big budmash. He will without doubt, a 
go to the fee for his behavior.” Renowart 
yells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology = 
to myself from Imam Din. = 
“Tell the baby,” said I, “that the Sahzb is not — ; 
angry, and take him away.” Imam Din conveyed 


THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 225 


my forgiveness to the offender, who had now gath- 
ered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and 
the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off for 
the door. ‘“ His name,” said Imam Din, as though 
the name were part of the crime, “is Muhammad 
Din, and he is a budmash.” Freed from present 
danger, Muhammad Din turned round, in his father’s 
arms, and said gravely :-—“ It is true that my name 
is Muhammad Din, Zahzb, but Iam not a budmash 
Tamaman!” 

From that day dated my acquaintance with 
Muhammad Din. Never again did he come into my 
dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the com- 
pound, we greeted each other with much state, 
though our conversation was confined to “ Zalaam, 
Tahib” from his side and “ Salaam, Muhammad 
Din” from mine. Daily on my return from office, 
the little white shirt, and the fat little body used to 
rise from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis 
where they had been hid ; and daily I checked my 
horse here, that my salutation might not be slurred 
over or given unseemly. 

Muhammad Din never had any companions. He 
used to trot about the compound, in and out of the 
castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own. 
One day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far 
down the ground. He had half buried the polo-ball 
in dust, and stuck six shriveled old marigold 
flowers in a circle round it. Outside that circle 
again, was a rude square, traced out in bits of red 
brick alternating with fragments of broken china ; 


294. THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 


the whole bounded by a little bank of dust. The 
_ bhastie from the well-curb put ina plea for the small 
architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby 
and did not much disfigure my garden. 

Heaven knows that I had no intention of touch- 
ing the child’s work then or later ; but, that evening, 
a stroll through the garden brought me unawares 
full on it; so that I trampled, before I knew, mari- 
gold-heads, dust-bank, and fragments of broken soap- 
dish into confusion past all no of mending. Next 
morning I came upon Muhammad Din crying softly 
to himself over the ruin I had wrought. Some one 
had cruelly told him that the Sahzb was very angry 
with him for spoiling the garden, and had scattered 
his rubbish using bad language the while. Muham- 
mad Din labored for an hour at effacing every trace 
of the dust-bank and pottery fragments, and it was 
with a tearful and apologetic face that he said, 
“ Talaam Tahib,’? when I came home from the 
office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din in- 
forming Muhammad Din that by my singular favor 
he was permitted to disport himself as he pleased. 
Whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing the - 
ground-plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the 
marigold-polo-ball creation. 

For some months, the chubby little eccentricity 
revolved in his humble orbit among the castor-oil 
bushes and in the dust; always fashioning mag- 
nificent palaces from oF flowers thrown away 
by the bearer, smooth water-worn pebbles, bits of 
broken glass, and feathers pulled, I fancy, from — 


THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 995 


my fowls—always alone and always crooning to 
himself. . 

A gayly-spotted. sea-shell was dropped one day 
close to the last of his little buildings; and I looked 
that Muhammad Din should build something more 
than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor 
was I disappointed. He meditated for the better 
part of an hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant 
song. Then he began tracing in dust. It would 
certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was 
two yards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. 
But the palace was never completed. 

Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the 
head of the carriage-drive, and no “ Talaam Tahib” 
to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed to 
the greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next 
day, Imam Din told me that the child was suffering 
slightly from fever and needed quinine. He got the 
medicine, and an English Doctor. 

“They have no stamina, these brats,” said the 
Doctor, as he left Imam Din’s quarters. 

A week later, though I would have given much 
to have avoided it, I met on the road to the Mussul- 
man burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied by 
one other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped ina 
white cloth, all that was left of little Muhammad 
Din. 

#5 


PE Ly Oy a SS Pea he Se Ee Ny 8 ie See pe ad, Ry ea mg a ee Oe naa le a eae Clee A Sape 
LR ae AMR n> SIRT ae Os SRNR tah Bea Sy ay ert iar Sher ae Fess, 65 Vepees Sree og 
hice : f= i cera wage) aoe so 


ON THE STRENGTH OF A 
LIKENESS. | a 


If your mirror be broken, look into still water ; but have a2 
a care that you do not fall in. 
Hindu Proverb. 


Nexr toa requited attachment, one of the most a 


convenient things that a young man can carry 


about with him atthe beginning of his career, is an : 
unrequited attachment. It makes him feelimpor- 


tant and business-like, and b/asé, and cynical; and — 
whenever he hasa touch of liver, or suffers from 
want of exercise, he can mourn over his lost love, — 
and be very happy in a tender, twilight fashion. 

Hannasyde’s affair of the heart had been a God- — 
send to him. It was four years old, and the girl 
had long since given up thinking of it. She had 
married and had many cares of her own. In the 
beginning, she had told Hannasyde that, “while 
she could never be anything more than a sister to — 
him, sho would always take the deepest interest in 
his welfare.” This startlingly new and original 
remark gave Hannasyde something to think over 
for two years; and his own vanity filled in the 


other twenty-four months. Hannasyde was quite 
A26 ete 


i 


ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS. 227 


different from Phil Garron, but, none the less, had 
several points in common with that far too lucky man. 

He kept his unrequited attachment by him as 
men keep a well-smoked pipe—for comfort’s sake, 
and because it had grown dear in the using. It 
brought him happily through the Simla _ season. 
Hannasyde was not lovely. There was a crudity in 
his manners, and a roughness in the way in which 
he helped a lady on to her horse, that did not attract 
the other sex to him, even if he had cast about for 
their favor, which he did not. He kept his wounded 
heart allto himself for a while. 

Then trouble came to him. All whogo to Simla, 
know the slope from the Telegraph to the Public 
Works Office. Hannasyde was loafing up the hill, 
one September morning between calling hours, when 
a “rickshaw came down in a burry, and in the ’rick- 
shaw sat the living, breathing image of the girl who 
had made him so happily unhappy. Hannasyde 
leaned against the railings and gasped. He wanted 
to run down-hill after the ’rickshaw, but that was 
impossible; so he went forward with most of his 
blood in his temples. It was impossible, for many 
reasons, that the woman in the ’rickshaw could be 
the girl he had known. She was, he discovered 
later, the wife of a man from Dindigul, or Coimba- 
tore, or some out-of-the-way place, and she had come 
up to Simla early in the season for the good of her 
health. She was going back to Dindigul, or wher- 
ever it was, at the end of the season; and in all 
_ likelihood would never return to Simla again, her 


298 ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS. 


proper Hill-station being Ootacamund. That night, 
Hannasyde, raw and savage from the raking up of 
all old feelings, took counsel with himself for one 
measured hour. What he decided upon was this; 
and you must decide for yourself how much genuine 
affection for the old love, and how much a very 
natural inclination to go abroad and enjoy himself, 
affected the decision. Mrs. Landys-Haggert would 
never in all human likelihood cross his path again. 
So whatever he did didn’t much matter. She was 
marvelously like the girl who “ took a deep interest ” 
and the rest of the formula. All things considered, 
it would be pleasant to make the acquaintance of ~ 
Mrs. Landys-Haggert, and for a little time—only a 
very little time—to make believe that he was with — 
Alice Chisane again. Every one is more or less mad 
on one point. Hannasyde’s particular monomania 
was his old love, Alice Chisane. | 
He made it oe business to get introduced to Mrs. 
Haggert, and the introduction prospered. He also 
made it his business to see as much as he could of 
that lady. When aman is in earnest as to inter- 
views, the facilities which Simla offers are startling. 
There are garden-parties, and tennis-parties, and 
picnics, and luncheons at Annandale, and rifle- 
matches, and dinners and balls; besides rides and — 
walks, which are matters of private arrangement. 
Hannasyde had started with the intention of seeing 
a likeness, and he ended by doing much more. He 
wanted to be deceived, he meant to be deceived, and 
he deceived himself very thoroughly. Not only 


ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS. 229 


were the face and figure the face and figure of 
Alice Chisane, but the voice and lower tones were 
exactly the same, and so were the turns of speech ; 
and the little mannerisms, that every woman has, of 
gait and gesticulation, were absolutely and iden- 
tically the same. The turn of the head was the 
same; the tired look in the eyes at the end ofa 
long walk was the same; the stoop and wrench 
over the saddle to hold in a pulling horse was the 
same; and once, most marvelous of all, Mrs. Landys 
Haggert singing to herself in the next room, while 
Hannasyde was waiting to take her for a ride, 
hummed, note for note, with a throaty quiver of the 
voice in the second line :—“‘ Poor Wandering One!” 
exactly as Alice Chisane had hummed it for Han- 
nasyde in the dusk of an English drawing-room. In 
the actual woman herself—in the soul of her—there 
was not the least likeness; she and Alice Chisane 
being cast in different molds. But all that Han- 
nasyde wanted to know and see and think about, 
was this maddening and perplexing likeness of face 
and voice and manner. He was bent on making a 
fool of himself that way; and he was in no sort 
disappointed. 

Open and obvious devotion from any sort of man 
is always pleasant to any sort of woman; but Mrs. 
Landys-Haggert, being a woman of the world, could 
-make nothing of Hannasyde’s admiration. 

He would take any amount of trouble—he was a 
selfish man habitually—to meet and forestall, if 
possible, her wishes. Anything she told him to do 


930 ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS. 


was law; and he was, there could be no doubting 2 
it, fond of her company so long as she talked to ~ 


him, and kept on talking about trivialities. But 2 


when she launched into expression of her personal — 

views and her wrongs, those small social differences 
that make the spice of Simla life, Hannasyde was — 
neither pleased nor interested. He didn’t want to 
know anything about Mrs. Landys-Haggert, or her 


experiences in the past—She had traveled nearly _ 


all over the world, and could talk cleverly—he 
wanted the likeness of Alice Chisane before his — 
eyes and her voice in his ears. Anything outside — 
that, reminding him of another personality jarred, 
and he showed that it did. . 

Under the new Post Office, one evening, Mrs. — 


Landys-Haggert turned on him, and spoke her mind _ 
shortly and without warning. “ Mr. Hannasyde,”’ 


said she, “ will you be good enough to explain why ~ : 


you have appointed yourself my special cavalier — 


servente? I don’t understand it. But I am per- 
fectly certain, somehow or other, that you don’t — 
care the least little bit in the world for me.” This — 
seems to support, by the way, the theory that no 
man can act or tell lies to a woman without being 
found out. Hannasyde was taken off his guard. 
His defense never was a strong one, because he was _ 
always thinking of himself, and he blurted out, be- — 
fore he knew what he was saying, this inexpedient _ 
answer :—“ No more I do.” : 
The queerness of the situation and the reply, made _ 
Mrs. Landys-Haggert laugh. Then it allcame out; — 


ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS. 231 


and at the end of Hannasyde’s lucid explanation, 
Mrs. Haggert said, with the least little touch of 
scorn in her voice :—“ So I’m to act as the lay-figure 
for you to hang the rags of your tattered affections 
on, am [?” 

Hannasyde didn’t see what answer was required, 
and he devoted himself generally and vaguely to 
the praise of Alice Chisane, which was unsatisfac- 
tory. Now it is to be thoroughly made clear that 
Mrs. Haggert had not the shadow of a ghost of an 
interest in Hannasyde. Only . . . . only no 
woman likes being made love through instead of to 
—specially on behalf of a musty divinity of four 
years’ standing. 

Hannasyde did not see that he had made any very 
particular exhibition of himself. He was glad to 
find a sympathetic soul in the arid wastes of Simla. 

When the season ended, Hannasyde went down 
‘to his own place and Mrs. Haggert to hers. “It 
was like making love to a ghost,” said Hannasyde 
to himself, “and it doesw’t matter ; and now [ll get 
tomy work.” But he found himself thinking steadily 
of the Haggert-Chisane ghost ; and he could not be 
certain whether it was Haggert or Chisane that 
made up the greater part of the pretty phantom. 


He got understanding a month later. 

A peculiar point of this peculiar country is the 
way in which a heartless Government transfers men 
from one end of the Empire to the other. You can 


232 ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS. 


never be sure of getting rid of a friend or an enemy 
till he or she dies. There was a case once—but 
that’s another story. 

Hagegert’s Department ordered him up from Din- 
digul to the Frontier at two days’ notice, and he 
went through, losing money at every step, from 
Dindigul to his station. He dropped Mrs. Haggert 
at Lucknow, to stay with some friends there, to 
take part in a big ball at the Chutter Munzil, and 
to come on when he had made the new home 
a little comfortable. Lucknow was Hannasyde’s 
station, and Mrs. Haggert stayed a week there. 
Hannasyde went to meet her. As the train came 
in, he discovered which he had been thinking of for 
the past month. The unwisdom of his conduct also 
struck him. The Lucknow week, with two dances, 
and an unlimited quantity of rides together, clinched 
matters ; and Hannasyde found himself pacing this 
circle of thought :—He adored Alice Chisane—at — 
least he Aad adored her. And he admired Mrs. 
Landys-Haggert because she was like Alice Chisane. 
But Mrs. Landys-Haggert was not in the least like 
Alice Chisane, being a thousand times more ador- 
able. Wow Alice Chisane was “the bride of an- 
other,” and so was Mrs. Landys-Hagegert, and a 
good and honest wife too. Therefore, he, Hanna- 
syde, was... . . »- here he called himself 
several hard names, and wished that he had been 
wise in the heoinning, . 

Whether Mrs. Landys-Haggert saw what was 
going on in his mind, she alone knows. He seemed 


‘ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS. 233 


to take an unqualified interest in everything con- 
nected with herself, as distinguished from the Alice- 
Chisane likeness, and he said one or two things 
which, if Alice Chisane had been still betrothed to 
him, could scarcely have been excused, even on the 
grounds of the likeness. But Mrs. Haggert turned 
the remarks aside, and spent a long time in making 
Hannasyde see what a comiort and a pleasure she 
had been to him because of her strange resemblance 
to his old love. Hannasyde groaned in his saddle 
and said, ‘“ Yes, indeed,’ and busied himself with 
preparations for her departure to the Frontier, 
feeling very small and miserable. 

The last day of her stay at Lucknow came, and 
Hannasyde saw her off at the Railway Station. 
She was very grateful for his kindness and the 
trouble he had taken, and smiled pleasantly and 
sympathetically as one who knew the Alice-Chisane 
reason of that kindness.: And Hannasyde abused 
the coolies with the luggage, and hustled the people 
on the platform, and prayed that the roof might 
fall in and slay him. 

As the train went out slowly, Mrs. Landys-Hag 
gert leaned out of the window to say good-by :— 
“On second thoughts aw revoir, Mr. Hannasyde. 
I go Home in the Spring, and perhaps I may meet 
you in Town.” 

Hannasyde shook hands, and said very earnestly 
and adoringly :—“I hope to Heaven I shall never 
see your face again! ” 

And Mrs. Haggert understood. 


WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN — 
OFFICE. 


I closed and drew for my love’s sake, 
That now is false to me, 

And I slew the Riever of Tarrant Moss, 
And set Dumeny free. 


And ever they give me praise and gold, 
And ever I moan my loss, 
For I struck the blow for my false love’s sake, 


And not for the men at the moss. tee 


Tarrant Moss. 


On of the many curses of our life out here is the - 
want of atmosphere in the painter’s sense. There 
are no half-tints worth noticing. Men stand out all 
crude and raw, with nothing to tone them down, 
and nothing to scale them against. They do their 
work, and grow to think that there is nothing but — 
their work, and nothing like their work, and that — 
they are the real pivots on which the adingueee ea 
turns. Here is an instance of this feeling. A — 
half-caste clerk was ruling forms in a Pay Office. — 
He said to me:—“ Do you know what would 
happen if I added or took away one single line on — 
this sheet ?” Then, with the air of a conspirator :— _ 


qo 


WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE. 230 


“Tt would disorganize the whole of the Treasury 
payments throughout the whole of the Presidency 
Circle! Think of that?” 

If men had not this delusion as to the ultra- 
importance of their own particular employments, I 
suppose that they would sit down and kill them- 
selves. But their weakness is wearisome, par- 
ticularly when the listener knows that he himself 
commits exactly the same sin. 

Even the Secretariat believes that it does good 
when it asks an over-driven Executive Officer to 
take a census of wheat-weevils through a district 
of five thousand square miles. 

There was aman once in the Foreign Office—a 
man who had grown middle-aged in the department, 
and was commonly said, by irreverent juniors, to be 
able to repeat Aitchison’s “ Zreaties and Sunnuds”’ 
backwards, in-his sleep. What he did with his 
stored knowledge only the Secretary knew ; and 
he, naturally, would not publish the news abroad. 
This man’s name was Wressley, and it was the Shib- 
boleth, in those days, to say :—Wressley knows 
more about the Central Indian States than any 
_ living man.” If you did not say this, you were 
considered one of mean understanding. 

Nowadays, the man who says that he knows the 
ravel of the inter-tribal complications across the 
Border is of more use; butin Wressley’s time, much 
attention was paid to the Central Indian States. 
They were called “foci” and “factors,” and all 
manner of imposing names, 


—— 


236 WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE. 


And here the curse of Anglo-Indian life fell 
heavily. When Wressley lifted up his voice, and 
spoke about such-and-such a succession to such-and- 
such a throne, the Foreign Office were silent, and — 
Heads of Departments repeated the last two or 
three words of Wressley’s sentences, and tacked 
“ves, yes,” on to them, and knew that they were 
“assisting the Empire to grapple with serious 
political contingencies.” In most big undertakings 
one or two men do the work while the rest sit near 
and talk till the ripe decorations begin to fall. 

Wressley was the working-member of the Foreign 
Office firm, and, to keep him up to his duties when 
he showed signs of flagging, he was made much of 
by his superiors and told what a fine fellow he was. 
He did not require coaxing, because he was of tough 
build, but what he received confirmed him in the 
belief that there was no one quite so absolutely and 
~ imperatively necessary to the stability of India as 
Wressley of the Foreign Office. There might be 
other good men, but the known, honored and trusted 
man among men was Wressley of the Foreign Office. — 
We had a viceroy in those days who knew exactly 
when to “gentle” a fractious big man, and to 
hearten up a collar-galled little one, and so keep all 
his team level. He conveyed to Wressley the im- 
pression which I have just set down; and even 
tough men are apt to be disorganized by a Viceroy’s 
praise. There was a case once but that is another — 
story. 

All India knew Wressley’s name and office—it 


WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE. 237 


was in Thacker and Spink’s Directory—but who he 
was personally, or what he did, or what his special 
merits were, not fifty men knew or cared. His 
work filled all his time, and he found no leisure to 
cultivate acquaintances beyond those of dead Raj- 
put chiefs with A/zr blots in their scutcheons. 
Wressley would have made a very good Clerk in 
the Herald’s College had he not been a Bengal 
Civilian. 

Upona day, between office and office, great trouble 
came to Wressley—overwhelmed him, knocked him 
down, and left him gasping as though he had been 
a little schoolboy. Without reason, against pru- 
dence, and at a moment’s notice, he fell in love with 
a frivolous, golden-haired girl who used to tear 
about Simla Mall on a high, rough waler, with a 
blue velvet jockey-cap crammed over her eyes. Her 
name was Venner—Tillie Venner—and she was 
delightful. She took Wressley’s heart at a hand- 
gallop, and Wressley found that it was not good for 
man to live alone; even with half of the Foreign 
Office Records in his presses. 

Then Simla laughed, for Wressley in love was 
slightly ridiculous. He did his best to interest the 
girl in himself—that is to say, his work—and she, 
after the manner of women, did her best to appear 
interested in what, behind his back, she called “ Mr. 
Wressley’s Wajahs”; for she lisped very prettily. 
She did not understand one little thing about them, 
but she acted as if she did. Men have married on 
that sort of error before now. 


938 WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE. 


Providence, however, had care of Wressley. He — 


was immensely struck with Miss Venner’s intelli- 
gence. He would have been more impressed had he © 
heard her private and confidential accounts of his — 
calls. He held peculiar notions as to the wooing of — 


girls. He said that the best work of a man’s career — 


should be laid reverently at their feet. Ruskin — 
writes something like this somewhere, I think; but — 
in ordinary lifea few kisses are better and save time. — 

About a month after he had lost his heart to Miss — 
Venner, and had been doing his work vilely in con- — 
sequence, the first idea of his “ Vateve Rule im Oen- — 
tral India” struck Wressley and filled him with joy. — 
It was, as he sketched it, a great thing—the work of — 
his life—-a really comprehensive survey of a most — 
fascinating subject—to be written with all the special — 


and laboriously acquired knowledge of Wressley of f 


the Foreign Office—a gift fit for an Empress. 


He told Miss Venner that he was going totake — 
leave, and hoped, on his return, to bring her a pres- — 
ent worthy of her acceptance. Would she wait? — 
Certainly she would. Wressley drew seventeen — 


hundred rupeesa month. She would wait a year for — 


that. Her mamma would help her to wait. 


So Wressley took one year’s leave and all the 
available documents, about a truck-load, that he — 
could lay hands on, and went down to Central India — 
with his notion hot in hishead. He began his book ~ 
in the land he was writing of. Too much official — 


correspondence had made him a frigid workman, and 


he must have guessed that he needed the white light : 


WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE. 239 


of local color on his palette. This is a dangerous 
paint for amateurs to play with. 

Heavens, how that man worked! He caught his 
Rajahs, analyzed his Rajahs, and traced them up 
into the mists of Time and beyond, with their queens 
and their concubines. He dated and cross-dated, 
pedigreed and triple-pedigreed, compared, noted, 
connoted, wove, strung, sorted, selected, inferred, 
calendared and counter-calendared for ten hours a_ 
day. And, because this sudden and new light of 
Love was upon him, he turned those dry bones of 
history and dirty records of misdeeds into things to 
weep or to laugh overas he pleased. His heart and 
soul were at the end of his pen, and they got into 
the ink. He was dowered with sympathy, insight, 
humor and style for two hundred and thirty days and 
nights ; and his book was a Book. He had his vast 
special knowledge with him, so to speak; but the 
spirit, the woven-in human Touch, the poetry and 
the power of the output, were beyond all special 
knowledge. But I doubt whether he knew the gift 
that was in him then, and thus he may have lost 
some happiness. He was toiling for Tillie Venner, 
not for himself. Men often do their best work blind, 
for some one else’s sake. | 

Also, though this has nothing to do with the 
story, in India where every one knows every one 
else, you can watch men being driven, by the women 
who govern them, out of the rank-and-file and sent 
to take up points alone. A good man once started, 
goes forward; but an average man, so soon as the 


2940  WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICER, — 


woman loses interest in his success as a tribute to 
her power, comes back to the battalion and 1s no 
more heard of. 

Wressley bore the first copy of his book to Simla 
and, blushing and stammering, presented it to Miss 
Venner. She read a little of it. I give her review 
verbatim :—“ Oh, your book? It’s all about those 
how-wid Wajahs. I didn’t understand it.” 


Wressley of the Foreign Office was broken, 
smashed,—I am not exaggerating—by this one frivo- 
lous little girl. All that he could say feebly was :— 
“ But—but it’s my magnum opus! The work of my 
life.’ Miss Venner did not know what magnum 
opus meant; but she knew that Captain Kerrington 
had won three races at the last Gymkhana. Wress- 
ley didn’t press her to wait for him any longer. He 
had sense enough for that. 

Then came the reaction after the year’s strain, 
and Wressley went back to the Foreign Office and 
his “ Wajahs,” a compiling, gazetteering, report- 
writing hack, who would have been dear at three 
hundred rupees a month. He abided by Miss Ven- — 
ner’s review. Which proves that the inspiration in 
the book was purely temporary and unconnected — 
with himself. Nevertheless, he had no right to sink, 
in a hill-tarn, five packing-cases, brought up at enor- 
mous expense from Bombay, of the best book of 
Indian history ever written. — 

When he sold off before retiring, some years later, 


WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE. 241 


I was turning over his shelves, and came across the 
only existing copy of “ Watwe Lule in Central 
India”—the copy that Miss Venner could not un- 
derstand. I read it, sitting on his mule-trucks, as 
long as the light lasted, and offered him his own 
price for it. He looked over my shoulder for a few 
pages and said to himself drearily :— 

“ Now, how in the world did I come to write 
such damned good stuff as that ?” 

Then to me :— 

“Take it and keep it. Write one of your penny- 
farthing yarns about its birth. Perhaps—-perhaps 
—the whole business may have been ordained to that 
end.” 

Which, knowing what Wressley of the Foreign 
Office was once, struck me as about the bitterest 
thing that I had ever heard a man say of his own 
work. 


foun 


BY WORD OF MOUTH. 


Not though you die to-night, O Sweet, and wail, 
A specter at my door, 
Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail— 
T shall but love you more ; 
Who, from Death’s house returning, give me e still 
One moment’s comfort in may matchless ill. 
Shadow Houses. 


Turs tale may be explainea by those who know 
how souls are made, and where the bounds of the 


Possible are put down. I have lived long enough in 


this country to know that itis best to know nothing, 


and can only write the story as it happened. 
Dumoise was our Civil Surgeon at Meridki, and 


we called him “* Dormouse,” because he was a round 


little, sleepy little man. He was a good Doctor and 


never quarreled with any one, not even with our 


Deputy Commissioner, who had the manners of a 
bargee and the tact ofa horse. He married a girl 


as monn and as sleepy-looking as himself. She was 


a Miss Hillardyce, daughter of “Squash” Hil- 
lardyce of the Berars, iG married his Chief’s 
daughter by mistake. But that is another story. 


A honeymoon in India is seldom more than a — 


aAd 


BY WORD OF MOUTH. 943 


week long; but there is nothing to hinder a couple 
from extending it over two or three years. This is 
a delightful country for married folk who are 
wrapped up in one another. They can live abso- 
lutely alone and without interruption—just as the 
Dormice did. These two little people retired from 
the world after their marriage, and were very happy. 
They were forced, of course, to give occasional 
dinners, but they made no friends hereby, and the 
Station went its own way and forgot them; only 
saying, occasionally, that Dormouse was the best of 
good fellows, though dull. A Civil Surgeon who 
never quarrels is a rarity, appreciated as such. 

Few people can afford to play Robinson Crusoe 
any where—least of all in India, where we are few 
in the land, and very much dependent on each other’s 
kind offices. Dumoise was wrong in shutting him- 
self from the world for a year, and he discovered 
his mistake when an epidemic of typhoid broke out 
in the Station in the heart of the cold weather, and 
his wife went down. He was a shy little man, and 
five days were wasted before he realized that Mrs. 
Dumoise was burning with something worse than 
simple fever, and three days more passed before he 
ventured to call on Mrs. Shute, the Engineer’s wife, 
and timidly speak about his trouble. Nearly every 
household in India knows that Doctors are very 
. helpless in typhoid. The battle must be fought out 
between Death and the Nurses, minute by minute 
and degree by degree. Mrs. Shute almost boxed 
Dumoise’s ears for what she called his “criminal 


dade > BY WORD OF MOUTH. 


delay,” and went off at once to look after the poor 
girl. We had seven cases of typhoid in the Station 
that winter and, as the average of death is about 
one in every five cases, we felt certain that we 
should have to lose somebody. But all did their 
best. The women sat up nursing the women, and 
the men turned to and tended the bachelors who 
were down, and we wrestled with those typhoid 
cases for fifty-six days, and brought them through 
the Valley of the Shadow in triumph. But, just 
when we thought all was over, and were going to 
give a dance to celebrate the victory, little Mrs. - 
Dumoise gota relapse and died in a week and the 
Station went to the funeral. Dumoise broke down 
utterly at the brink of the grave, and had to be 
taken away. 

After the death, Dumoise crept into his own 
house and refused to be comforted. He did his 
duties perfectly, but we all felt that he should go 
on leave, and the other men of his own Service told 
him so. Dumoise was very, thankful for the sug- 
gestion—he was thankful for anything in those 
days—and went to Chini on a walking-tour. Chini 
is some twenty marches from Simla, in the heart of 
the Hills, and the scenery is good if you are in 
trouble. You pass through big, still deodar-forests, 
and under big, still cliffs, and over big, still grass- 
downs swelling like a woman’s breasts; and the 
wind across the grass, and the rain among the 
deodars says :—‘‘ Hush—hush —hush.” So little 
Dumoise was packed off to Chini, to wear down his 


BY WORD OF MOUTH. 945 


erief with a full-plate camera, and a rifle. He took 
also a useless bearer, because the man had been his 
wife’s favorite servant. He was idle and a thief, 
but Dumoise trusted everything to him. 

On his way back from Chini, Dumoise turned 
aside to Bagi, through the Forest Reserve which is 
on the spur of Mount Huttoo. Some men who have 
traveled more than a little say that the march from 
Kotegarh to Bagi is one of the finest in creation. 
It runs through dark wet forest, and ends suddenly 
in bleak, nipped hillside and black rocks. Bagi 
dak-bungalow is open to all the winds and is bitterly 
cold. Few people go to Bagi. Perhaps that was 
the reason why Dumoise went there. He halted at 
seven in the evening, and his bearer went down the 
hillside to the. village to engage coolies for the next 
day’s march. The sun had set, and the night-winds 
were beginning to croon among the rocks. Dumoise 
leaned on the railing of the veranda, waiting for 
his bearer to return. The man came back almost 
immediately after he had disappeared, and at such a 
rate that Dumoise fancied he must have crossed a 
bear. He was running as hard as he could up the 
face of the hill. 

But there was no bear to account for his terror. 
He raced to the veranda and fell down, the blood 
spurting from his nose and his face iron-gray. Then 
he gurgled :—“T have seen the Memsahib! I have 
seen the Memsahib !” 

“ Where?” said Dumoise. 

“Down there, walking on the road to the village. 


246 BY WORD OF MOUTH. ~— 


She was in a blue dress, and she lifted the veil of 


her bonnet and said :—‘ Ram Dass, give my salaams © 


to the Sahzb, and tell him that I shall meet him next 


month at Nuddea.’ Then I ran away, because I was — 


afraid.” 


What Dumoise said or did I do not know. Ram — 


Dass declares that he said nothing, but walked up and 
down the veranda all the cold night, waiting for 
the Memsahib to come up the hill and stretching 
out his arms into the dark like a madman. But no 
Memsahib came, and, next day, he went on to 
Simla cross-questioning the bearer every hour. 

Ram Dass could only say that he had met Mrs. 
Dumoise and that she had lifted up her veil and 
given him the message which he had faithfully re- 
peated to Dumoise. To this statement Ram Dass 
adhered. Hedid not know where Nuddea was, had 
no friends at Nuddea, and would most certainly 


never go to Nuddea; even though his Dey were 


doubled. 

Nuddea is in Bengal, and has nothing whatever to 
do with a doctor serving in the Punjab. It must 
be more than twelve hundred miles from Meridki. 

Dumoise went through Simla without halting, and 
returned to Meridki there to take over charge from 


the man who had been officiating for him during his — 


tour. There were some Dispensary accounts to be 
explained, and some recent orders of the Surgeon- 
General to be noted, and, altogether, the taking-over 
was a full day’s work. In the evening, Dumoise 


told his locum. tenens, who was an old friend of his 


BY WORD OF MOUTH. DAF 


bachelor days, what had happened at Bagi; and the 
man said that Ram Dass might as well have chosen 
Tuticorin while he was about it. 

At that moment, a telegraph-peon came in with 
a telegram from Simla, ordering Dumoise not to 
take over charge at Meridki, but to go at once to 
Nuddea on special duty. There was a nasty out- 
break of cholera at Nuddea, and the Bengal Govern- 
ment, being shorthanded, as usual, had borrowed a 
Surgeon from the Punjab. 

Dumoise threw the telegram across the table and 
said :—“ Well ? ” : 

The other Doctor said nothing. It was all that 
he could say. 

Then he remembered that Dumoise had passed. 
through Simla on his way from Bagi; and thus 
might, possibly, have heard the first news of the 
impending transfer. 

He tried to put the question, and the implied sus- 
picion into words, but Dumoise stopped him with :— 
“Tf I had desired that, I should never have come 
back from Chini. I was shooting there. I wish 
to live, for [have things to do... . but I shall not 
be sorry.” 

The other man bowed his head, and helped, in the 
twilight, to pack up Dumoise’s just opened trunks, 
Ram Dass entered with the lamps. 

“ Where is the Saheb going?” he asked. 

“To Nuddea,” said Dumoise, softly. 

Ram Dass clawed Dumoise’s knees and boots and 
begged him not to go. Ram Dass wept and howled 


AR ter Bd aa 


248 BY WORD OF MOUTH. 


till he was turned out of theroom. Then he wrapped 
up all his belongings and came back to ask for a 
character. He was not going to Nuddea to see his 
Sahib die, and, perhaps to die himself. : 

So Dumoise gave the man his wages and went 
down to Nuddea alone; the other Doctor bidding 
him good-by as one under sentence of death. 

Eleven days later, he had joined his Uemsahib ; 
and the Bengal Government had to borrow a fresh 
Doctor to cope with that epidemic at Nuddea. The 
first importation lay dead in Chooadanga Dak-Bun- 
galow. : 


Sy err at ‘ 


TO BE FILED FOR REFER- 


ENCE. 


By the hoof of the Wild Goat up-tossed 
From the Cliff where she lay in the sun, 
Fell the Stone 
To the Tarn where the daylight is lost ; 
So She fell from the light of the Sun, 

And alone. 


Now the fall was ordained from the first, — 

With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn, 
But the stone 

Knows only Her life is accursed, 

As She sinks in the depths of the Tarn, - 
And alone. 


Oh, Thou who hast builded the world! 
Oh, Thou who hast lighted the Sun! 

Oh, Thou who hast darkened the Tarn 

Judge Thou 

The Sin of the Stone that was hurled 

By the Goat from the light of the Sun, 
As She sinks in the mire of the Tarn, 

Even now—even now—even now ! 


From the Unpublished Papers of McIntosh Jellaludin. 


“Say is it dawn, is it dusk in thy Bower, 


Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? 
Oh be it night—be it y 
Here he fell over alittle camel-colt that was sleep- 
ing in the Serai where the horse-traders and the best 


249 


250 TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 


of the blackguards from Central Asia live; and, | 
because he was very drunk indeed and the night ~ 
was dark, he could not rise again till I helped him. 


That was the beginning of my acquaintance with 


McIntosh Jellaludin. When a loafer, and drunk, : 
sings The Song of the Bower, he must be worth culti- 
vating. He gotoff the camel’s back and said, rather 


thickly :—“I—I—I’m a bit screwed, but a dip in — 


Loggerhead will put me right again; and I say, have © 
you spoken to Symonds about the mare’s knees ?” 
Now Loggerhead was six thousand weary miles — 
away from us, close to Mesopotamia, where you — 
mustn’t fish and poaching is impossible, and Charley 


Symonds’ stable a half mile further across the pad- 


docks. It was strange to hear all the old names, 
on a May night, among the horses and camels of the 
Sultan Caravanserai. Then the man seemed to re- 
member himself and sober down at the same time. 
He leaned against the camel and pointed to a corner 
of the Serai where a lamp was burning :— | 

“T live there,” said he, “ and I should be bficonely 
obliged if you would be good enough to help my 
mutinous feet thither ; for [am more than usually — 
drunk—most—most phenomenally tight. But not ~ 
in respect tomy head. ‘ My brain cries out against ’— 
how does it go? But my head rides on the 
on the dunghill I should have said, and controls the 
qualm.” ~ 

T helped him through the gangs of tethered horses 
and he collapsed on the edge of the veranda in front _ 
of the line of native quarters. oe 


rolls 


TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 251 


“ Thanks—a thousand thanks! O moon and little, 
little Stars! To think that a man should so shame- 
lessly : ... Infamous liquor, too. Ovid in exile 
drank noworse. Better. Itwas frozen. Alas! I 
had no ice. Good night. I would introduce you to 
my wife were I sober—or she civilized.” 

A native woman came out of the darkness of the 
room, and began calling the man names; so I went 
away. He was the most interesting loafer that I 
had had the pleasure of knowing for a long time; 
and later on, he became a friend of mine. He was 
a tall, well-built, fair man fearfully shaken with 
drink, and he looked nearer fifty than the thirty-five 
which, he said, was his real age. When a man be- 
gins to sink in India, and is not sent Home by his 
friends as soon as may be, he falls very low from a 
respectable point of view. By the time that he 
changes his creed, as did McIntosh, he is past re- 
demption. 

In most big cities, natives will tell you of two or 
three Sahibs, generally low-caste, who have turned 
Hindu or Mussalman, and who live more or less as 
such. But it is not often that you can get to know 
them. As McIntosh himself used to say :—“If I 
change my religion for my stomach’s sake, I do not, 
seek to become a martyr to missionaries, nor am [| 
anxious for notoriety.” | 

At the outset of acquaintance McIntosh warned 
me. “Remember this. I am not an object for 
charity. I require neither your money, your food, 
nor your cast-off raiment. I am that rare ani- 


1 D5? TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 


mal a self-supporting drunkard. If you choose, I 
will smoke with you, for the tobacco of the bazars 
does not, I admit, suit my palate; and I will bor- 
row any books which you may not specially value. 
It is more than likely that I shall sell them for 
bottles of excessively filthy country-liquors. In 
return, you shall share such hospitality as my house 
affords. Here is a charpoy on which two can sit, 
and it is possible that there may, from time to time, 
be food in that platter. Drink, unfortunately, you 
will find on the premises at any hour: and thus 
I make you welcome to all my poor establish- 
ments.” 

I was admitted to the McIntosh household—I and 
my good tobacco. But nothing else. Unluckily, 
one cannot visit a loafer in the Serai by day. 
Friends buying horses would not understand it. 
Consequently, I was obliged to see McIntosh after 
dark. He laughed at this, and said simply :—“ You 
are perfectly right. When I enjoyed a position in 
society, rather higher than yours, I should have done 
exactly the samething. Good Heavens! Iwas once” 
—he spoke as though he had fallen from the Com- 
mand of a Regiment—“an Oxford Man!” This 
accounted for the reference to Charley Symonds’ 
stable. 

“You,” said McIntosh, slowly, “have not had 
that advantage; but, to outward appearance, you 
do not seem Bp oRsee ae. of a craving for strong drinks. 
On the whole, 1 fancy that you are the luckier of 
the two. Yet Iam not certain. You are—forgive 


TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 253 


my saying so even while I am smoking your excel- 
lent tobacco—painfully ignorant of many things.” 

We were sitting together on the edge of his bed- 
stead, for he owned no chairs, watching the horses 
being watered for the night, while the native woman 
was preparing dinner. I did not like being pat- 
ronized by a loafer, but I was his guest for the time 
being, though he owned only one very torn alpaca- 
coat and a pair of trousers made out of gunny-bags. 
He took the pipe out of his mouth, and went on ju- 
dicially :—‘“‘ All things considered, I doubt whether 
youare the luckier. I do not refer to your extremely 
limited classical attainments, or your excruciating 
quantities, but to your gross ignorance of matters 
more immediately under your notice. That for in- 
stance.”—He pointed to a woman cleaning a samo- 
var near the well in the center of the Seral. She 
was flicking the water out of the spout in regular 
cadenced jerks. 

“There are ways and ways of cleaning samovars. 
If you knew why she was doing her work in that 
particular fashion, you would know what the Spanish 
Monk meant when he said— 


‘I the Trinity illustrate, 
Drinking watered orange-pulp—- 

- In three sips the Aryan frustrate, 
While he drains his at one gulp’—~ 


and many other things which now are hidden from 
your eyes. However, Mrs. McIntosh has prepared 
dinner. Let us come and eat after the fashion of 


i 


954. TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 


the people of the country—of whom, by the way, 

you know nothing.” | | 
The native woman dipped her hand in the dish 

withus. This was wrong. The wife should always 


wait until the husband has eaten. McIntosh Jel- | 


laludin apologized, saying :— 
“Tt is an English prejudice which I have not been 


able to overcome; and she loves me. Why, Ihave — 
never been able to understand. Iforegathered with © 
her at Jullundur, three years ago, and she has re- — 


mained with me ever since. I believe her to be 
moral, and know her to be skilled in cookery.” 


He patted the woman’s head as he spoke, and she 


cooed softly. She was not pretty to look at. _ 
McIntosh never told me what position he had 


held before his fall. He was, when sober, a scholar — 


anda gentleman. When drunk, he was rather more 


of the first than the second. He used to get drunk 


about once a week for two days. On those occa- 


sions the native woman tended him while he raved 


in all tongues except his own. One day, indeed, he 
began reciting Atalanta am Calydon, and went 


through it to the end, beating time to the swing of 
the verse with a bedstead-leg. But he did most of 


his ravings in Greek or German. The man’s mind 
was a perfect rag-bag of useless things. Once, when 
he was beginning to get sober, he told me that I 
was the only rational being in the Inferno into which 
he had descended—a Virgil in the Shades, he said 


-——and that, in return for my tobacco, he would, be- — 


fore he died, give me the materials of a new Inferno 


pee z 2 » + 
Oe’ Pray Ree Axe ies ae 


TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 255 


that should make me greater than Dante. Then he 
fell asleep on a horse-blanket and woke up quite 
calm. 

“Man,” said he, “ when you have reached the ut- 
termost depths of degradation, little incidents which 
would vex a higher life, are to you of no conse- 
quence. Last night, my soul was among the gods; 
but I make no doubt that my bestial body was writh- 
ing down here in the garbage.” 

“ You were abominably drunk if that’s what you 
mean,” I said. 

**T was drunk—filthily drunk. I who am the son 
of a man with whom you have no concern—I who 
was once Fellow of a College whose buttery-hatch 
you have not seen. J was loathsomely drunk. But 
consider how lightly I am touched. It is nothing to 
me. Less than nothing; for I do not even feel the 
headache which should be my portion. Now, in a 
higher life, how ghastly would have been my pun- 
ishment, how bitter my repentance! Believe me, 
my friend with the neglected education, the highest 
is as the lowest—always supposing each degree 
extreme.” 

He turned round on the blanket, put his head 
between his fists and continued :— 

“On the Soul which I have lost and on the Con- 
science which I have killed, I tell you that I cannot 
feel. Iam as the gods, knowing good and evil, but 
untouched by either. Is this enviable or is it 
not ¢” 

When a man has lost the warning of “ next morn- 


- 256 TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 


ing’s head,” he must be in a bad state, I answered, 
looking at McIntosh on the blanket, with his hair — 
over his eyes and his lips blue-white, that I did not 
think the insensibility good enough. 

“For pity’s sake, don’t say that! I tell you,it2s | 
good and most enviable. Think of my consola- — 
tions !” 

“Have you so many, then, McIntosh ?” 

“ Certainly; your attempts at sarcasm which is 
essentially the weapon of a cultured man, are crude. 
First, my attainments, my classical and literary 
knowledge, blurred, perhaps, by immoderate drink- 
ing—which reminds me that before my soul went 
to the Gods last night, I sold the Pickering Horace 
you so kindly lend me. Ditta Mull the Clothesman 
has it. It fetched ten annas, and may be redeemed 
for a rupee—but still infinitely superior to yours. 
Secondly, the abiding affection of Mrs. McIntosh, 
best of wives. Thirdly, a monument, more endur- 
ing than brass, which I have built up in the seven 
years of my degradation.” 

He stopped here, and crawled across the room for 
a drink of water. He was very shaky and sick. 

He referred several times to his “ treasure ”— 
some great possession that he owned—but I held 
this to be the raving of drink. He was as poor and — 
as proud as he could be. His manner was not 
pleasant, but he knew enough about the natives, 
among whom seven years of his life had been 
spent, to make his acquaintance worth having. He 
used actually to laugh at Strickland as an ignorant 


TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 957 


man—“ ignorant West and EKast”—he said. His 
boast was, first, that he was an Oxford Man of rare 
and shining parts, which may or may not have been 
true—I did not know enough to check his state- 
ments—and, secondly, that he “had his hand on 
the pulse of native life ”’—which was a fact. As an 
Oxford man, he struck me as a prig: he was always 
throwing his education about. As a Mahomedan 
faquir—as McIntosh Jellaludin—he was all that I 
wanted for my own ends. He smoked several 
pounds of my tobacco, and taught me several ounces 
of things worth knowing; but he would never 
accept any gifts, not even when the cold weather 
came, and gripped the poor thin chest under the 
poor thin alpaca-coat. He grew very angry, and 
said that I had insulted him, and that he was not 
going into hospital. He had lived like a beast and 
he would die rationally, like a man. 

Asa matter of fact, he died of pneumonia; and 
on the night of his death sent over a grubby note 
asking me to come and help him to die. 

The native woman was weeping by the side of 
the bed. McIntosh, wrapped in a cotton cloth, was 
too weak to resent a fur coat being thrown over 
him, He was very active as far as his mind was 
concerned; and his eyes were blazing. When he 
had abused the Doctor who came with me so foully 
that the indignant old fellow left, he cursed me for 
a few minutes and calmed down. 

Then he told his wife to fetch out ‘‘ The Book” 
from a hole in the wall. She brought out a big 

t7 


258 TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. | 


bundle, wrapped in the tail of a petticoat, of old — 
sheets of miscellaneous note-paper, all numbered 
and covered with fine cramped writing. McIntosh 
plowed his hand through the rubbish and stirred 
it up lovingly. 

“This,” hé.said, “1s my work—the Book of Me- 
Intosh Jellaludin, sco what he saw and how he 
lived, and what befell hon and others; being also 
an account of the life and sins and death of Mother 
Maturin. What Mirza Murad Ali Beg’s book is to 
all other books on native life, will my work be to 
Mirza Murad Ali Beg’s!” 

This, as will be conceded by any one who knows 
Mirza Murad Ali Beg’s book, was a sweeping state- 
ment. The papers did not look specially valuable ; 
but McIntosh handled them as if they were cur- 
rency-notes. Then said he slowly :— : 

“In despite the many weaknesses of your educa- | 
tion, you have been good to me. I will speak of 
your tobacco when I reach the Gods. I owe you 
much thanks for many kindnesses. But I abomi- 
nate indebtedness. For this reason I bequeath to 
you now the monument more enduring than brass— 
my one book—rude and imperfect in parts, but oh, 
how rare in others! I wonder if you will under- 
stand it. It is a gift more honorable than . 
Bah! where is my brain rambling to? You will 
mutilate it horribly. You will knock out the gems 
you call ‘ Latin quotations,’ you Philistine, and you 
will butcher the style to carve intoyour own jerky 
jargon ; but you cannot destroy the whole of it. I 


TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 259 


bequeath it to you. Ethel ... My brain again! 
... Mrs. McIntosh, bear witness that I give the Saheb 
all these papers. They would be of no use to you, 
Heart of my heart ; and I lay it upon you,” he turned 
to me here, ‘ that you do not let my book die in its 
present form. It is yours unconditionally—the story 
of McIntosh Jellaludin, which is not the story of 
- McIntosh Jellaludin, but of a greater man than he, 
and of a far greater woman. Listen now! Iam 
neither mad nor drunk! That book will make you 
famous.” 

I said, “ Thank you,” as the native woman put the 
bundle into my arms. 

“My only baby!” said McIntosh witha smile. 
_ He was sinking fast, but he continued to talk as 
long as breath remained. I waited for the end: 
_ knowing that, in six cases out of ten, the dying man 
calls for his mother. He turned on his side and 
said :— 

“Say how it came into your possession. No one 
will believe you, but my name, at least, will live. 
You will treat it brutally, I know you will. Some 
of it must go; the public are fools and prudish 
fools. I was their servant once. But do your 
mangling gently—-very gently. It is a great work. 
and I have paid for it in seven years’ damnation.” 

His voice stopped for ten or twelve breaths, and 
then he began mumbling a prayer of some kind in 
Greek. The native woman cried very bitterly. 
Lastly, he rose in bed and said, as loudly as slowly : 
—“ Not guilty, my Lord!” 


260 TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE. 


Then he fell back, and the stupor held him till he 
died. The native woman ran into the Serai among 
the horses and screamed and beat her breasts; for 
she had loved him. | 

Perhaps his last seatence in life told what Mc- — 
Intosh had once gone through; but, saving the big 
bundle of old sheets in the cloth, there was nothing 
in his room to say who or what he had been. 

The papers were in a hopeless muddle. 

Strickland helped me to sort them, and he said 
that the writer was either an extreme liar or a most 
wonderful person. He thought the former. One 
of these days, you may be able to judge for your- 
selves. The bundle needed much expurgation and 
was full of Greek nonsense, at the head of the 
chapters, which has all been cut out. 3 

If the thing is ever published, some one may 
perhaps remember this story, now printed as a 
safeguard to prove that McIntosh Jellaludin and 
not I myself wrote the Book of Mother Maturin. 

I don’t want the Giant’s Pobe to come true in my 


case. 
THE END. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE 
AND AFT. 


ee ee 


‘¢ And a little child shall lead them.” 


In the Army List they still stand as “ The Fore 
and Fit Princess Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen-Aus- 
pach’s Merther-Tydfilshire Own Royal Loyal Light 
Infantry, Regimental District 329A,” but the Army 
through all its barracks and canteens knows them 
now as the “ Fore and Aft.” They may in time do 
something that shall make their new title honorable, 
but at present they are bitterly ashamed, and the 
man who calls them ‘“‘ Fore and Aft” does so at the 
risk of the head which is on his shoulders. 

Two words breathed into the stables of a certain 
Cavalry Regiment will bring the men out into the 
streets with belts and mops and bad language; but 
a whisper of “Fore and Aft” will bring out this 
regiment with rifles. _ 

Their one excuse is that they came again and did 
their best to finish the job in style. But for a time 
all their world knows that they were openly beaten, 
whipped, dumb-cowed, shaking and afraid. The 


men know it; their officers know it; the Horse 
261 


262 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


Guards know it, and when the next war comes the 
enemy will know it also. There are two or three 
regiments of the Line that have a black mark against 


their names which they will then wipe out, and it 


will be excessively inconvenient for the igs upon 
whom they do their wiping. 


The courage of the British soldier is officially 


supposed to be above proof, and, as a general rule, 


it isso. The exceptions are dosent shoveled out — 


of sight, only to be referred to in the freshet of 
unguarded talk that occasionally swamps a Mess- 
table at midnight. Then one hears strange and hor- 
rible stories of men not following their officers, of 
orders being given by those who had no right to 
give them, and of disgrace that, but for the stand- 


ing luck of the British Army, might have ended in ~ 


brilliant disaster. These are unpleasant stories to 
listen to, and the Messes tell them under their breath, 


sitting by the big wood fires, and the young officer — 


bows his head and thinks to himself, please God, 
his men shall never behave unhandily. 
The British soldier is not altogether to be blamed 


for occasional lapses ; but this verdict he should not — 


know. A moderately intelligent General will waste 


six months in mastering the craft of the particular Zo 


war that he may be waging; 


a Colonel may utterly — 


misunderstand the capacity of his regiment for three . 
months after it has taken the field; and even a 
Company Commander may err and be deceived as — 


to the temper and temperament of his own handful : 


wherefore the soldier, and the soldier of to-day 2 


eal 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 263 


more particularly, should not be blamed for falling 
back. He should be shot or hanged afterwards— 
pour encourager les autres; but he should not be 
vilified in newspapers, for that is want of tact and 
- waste of space. 

He has, let us say, been in the service of the 
Empress for, perhaps, four years. He will leave in 
another two years. He has no inherited morals, 
and four years are not sufficient to drive toughness 
into his fiber, or to teach him how holy a thing is 
his Regiment. He wants to drink, he wants to 
enjoy himselfi—in India he wants to save money— 
and he does not in the least like getting hurt. He 
has received just sufficient education to make him 
understand half the purport of the orders he re- 
ceives, and to speculate on the nature of clean, in- 
cised, and shattering wounds. Thus, if he is told 
to deploy under fire preparatory to an attack, he 
knows that he runs a very great risk of being killed 
while he is deploying, and suspects that he is being 
thrown away to gain ten minutes’ time. He may 
either deploy with desperate swiftness, or he may 
shuffle, or bunch, or break, according to the disci- 
pline under which he has lain for four years. 

Armed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with 
the rudiments of an imagination, hampered by 
the intense selfishness of the lower classes, and un- 
supported by any regimental associations, this young 
man is suddenly introduced to an enemy who in 
eastern lands is always ugly, generally tall and hairy, 
and frequently noisy. If he looks to the right and 


964 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


the left and sees old soldiers—men of twelve years’ 
service, who, he knows, know what they are about 
—taking a charge, rush, or demonstration without 
embarrassment, he is consoled and applies his — 
shoulder to the butt of his rifle with a stout heart. 
His peace is the greater if he hears a senior, who 
has taught him his soldiering and broken his head 
on occasion, whispering :—‘‘ They’ll shout and 
carry on like this for five minutes. Then they’ll rush 
in, and then we’ve got ’em by the short hairs!” — 
But, on the other hand, if he sees only men of his 
own term of service, turning white and playing with 
their triggers and saying :— “‘ What the Hells up 
now ?” while the Company Commanders are sweat- 
ing into their sword-hilts and shouting :— “ Front- 
rank, fix bayonets. Steady there—steady! Sight 
for three hundred—no, for five! Lie down, all! 
Steady ! Front-rank, kneel!” and so forth, he be- 
comes unhappy ; and grows acutely miserable when 
he hears a comrade turn over with the rattle of fire- 
irons falling into the fender, and the grunt of a pole- 
axed ox. If he can be moved about a little and 
allowed to watch the effect of his own fire on the 
enemy he feels merrier, and may bethen worked up - 
to the blind passion of fighting, which is, contrary 
to general belief, controlled by a chilly Devil and 
shakes men like ague. If he is not moved about, 
and begins to feel cold at the pit of the stomach, 
and in that crisis is badly mauled and hears orders 
that were never given, he will break, and he will 
break badly} and of all things under the sight of 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 265 


the Sun there is nothing more terrible than a broken 
British regiment. When the worst comes to the 
worst and the panic is really epidemic, the men must 
be e’en let go, and the Company Commanders had 
better escape to the enemy and stay there for safety’s 
sake. If they can be made to come again they are 
not pleasant men to meet, because they will not 
break twice. 

About thirty years from this date, when we have 
succeeded in half-educating everything that wears 
trousers, our Army will be a beautifully unreliable 
machine. It will know too much and it will do too 
little. Later still, when all men are at the mental 
level of the officer of to-day it will sweep the earth. 
Speaking roughly, you must employ either black- 
guards or gentlemen, or, best of all, blackguards 
commanded by gentlemen, to do butcher’s work 
with efficiency and despatch. The ideal soldier 
should, of course, think for himself—the Pocket-book 
says so. Unfortunately, to attain this virtue, he has 
to pass through the phase of thinking of himself, and 
that is misdirected genius. A blackguard may be 
slow to think for himself, but he is genuinely anxious 
to kill, and a little punishment teaches him how to 
guard his own skin and perforate another’s. A 
powerfully prayerful Highland Regiment, officered 
by rank Presbyterians, is, perhaps, one degree more 
terrible in action than a hard-bitten thousand of ir- 
responsible Irish ruffians led by most improper young 
unbelievers. But these things prove the rule—which 
is that the midway men are not to be trusted alone. 


°66 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


They have ideas about the value of life and an up- 
bringing that has not taught them to go on and take 
the chances. They are carefully unprovided with a — 
backing of comrades who have been shot over, and 
until that backing is re-introduced, as a great many 
Regimental Commanders intend it shall be, they 
are more liable to disgrace themselves than the size 
of the Empire or the dignity of the Army allows. 
Their officers are as good as good can be, because 
their training begins early, and God has arranged — 
that a clean-run youth of the British middle classes 
shall, in the matter of backbone, brains, and bowels, | 
surpass all other youths. For this reason a child of 
eighteen will stand up, doing nothing, with a tin 
sword in his hand and joy in his heart until he is 
dropped. If he dies, he dies like a gentleman. If 
he lives, he writes Home that he has been “ potted,” 
“sniped,” “chipped” or “cut over,” and sits down 
to besiege Government for a wound-gratuity until 
the next little war breaks out, when he perjures 
himself before a Medical Board, blarneys his Col- 
onel, burns incense round his Adjutant, and is allowed 
to go to the Front once more. | 
Which homily brings me directly to a brace of the 
most finished little fiends that ever banged drum or 
tootled fife in the Band of a British Regiment. 
They ended their sinful career by open and flagrant 
mutiny and were shot for it. Their names were 
Jakin and Lew—Piggy Lew—and they were bold, 


bad drummer-boys, both of them frequently birched aS 


by the Drum-Major of the Fore and Aft. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 267 


Jakin was a stunted child of fourteen, and Lew 
was about the same age. When not looked after, 
they smoked and drank. They swore habitually 
after the manner of the Barrack-room, which is 
cold-swearing and comes from between clinched 
teeth; and they fought religiously once a week. 
Jakin had sprung from some London gutter and may 
or may not have passed through Dr. Barnardo’s 
hands ere he arrived at the dignity of drummer- 
boy. Lew could remember nothing except the regi- 
ment and the delight of listening to the Band from ~ 
his earliest years. He hid somewhere in his grimy 
little soul a genuine love for music, and was most 
mistakenly furnished with the head of a cherub: 
insomuch that beautiful ladies who watched the 
Regiment in church were wont to speak of him asa 
“darling.” They never heard his vitriolic comments 
on their manners and morals, as he walked back to 
barracks with the Band and matured fresh causes of 
offense against. Jakin. - | 

The other drummer-boys hated both lads on ac- 
count of their illogical conduct. Jakin might be 
pounding Lew, or Lew might be rubbing Jakin’s 
head in the dirt, but any attempt at aggression on 
the part of an outsider was met by the combined 
forces of Lew and Jakin; and the consequences 
were painful. The boys were the Ishmaels of the 
corps, but wealthy Ishmaels, for they sold battles 
in alternate weeks for the sport of the barracks: 
when they were not pitted against other boys; and . 
thus amassed money, 


268 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. — 


On this particular day there was dissension in the 
camp. They had just been convicted afresh of 
smoking, which is bad for little boys who use plug 
tobacco, and Lew’s contention was that Jakin had 
“stunk so ’orrid bad from keepin’ the pipe in 
pocket,” that he and he alone was responsible for 
the birching they were both tingling under. 

“T tell you I *id the pipe back o’ barricks,” said 
Jakin pacifically. 

“ You're a bloomin’ liar,” said Lew, without heat. 

“Youre a bloomin’ little barstard,” said Jakin, 
strong in the knowledge that his own ancestry was 
unknown. 

Now there is one word in the extended vocabulary 
of barrack-room abuse that cannot pass without 
comment. You may call a man a thief and risk 
nothing. You may even call him a coward without 
finding more than a boot whiz past your ear, but 
you must not call a man a bastard unless you are 
prepared to prove it on his front teeth. 

“You might ha’ kep’ that till I wasn’t so sore,’’ 
said Lew sorrowfully, dodging round Jakin’s guard. — 

“Tl make you sorer,” said Jakin genially, and 
got home on Lew’s alabaster forehead. All would 
have gone well and this story, as the books say,. 
would never have been written, had not his evil fate 
prompted the Bazar-Sergeant’s son, a long employ- 
less man of five-and-twenty, to put in an appearance 
after the first round. He was eternally in need of 
money, and knew that the boys had silver. ; 

“Fighting again,” said he. “Tl report you to 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 269 


my father, and he’ll report you to the Color- 
Sergeant.” 

“ What’s that to you?” said Jakin with an un- 
pleasant dilation of the nostrils. 

“Oh! nothing to me. You'll get into trouble, 
and you’ve been up too often to afford that.” 

“What the Hell do you know about what we’ve 
done?” asked Lew theSeraph. “ Yow aren’t in the~ 
Army, you lousy, cadging civilian.” 

He closed in on the man’s left flank. 

“ Jes’ ’cause you find two gentlemen settlin’ their 
diff'rences with their fistes you stick in your ugly 
nose where you aren’t wanted. Run ’ome to your 
arf-caste slut of a Ma—or we'll give you what-for,” 
said Jakin. 

The man attempted reprisals by knocking the 
boys’ heads together. The scheme would have suc- 
ceeded had not Jakin punched him vehemently in 
the stomach, or had Lew refrained from kicking his 
shins. They fought together, bleeding and breath- 
less, for half an hour, and, after heavy punishment, 
triumphantly pulled down their opponent as terriers 
pull down a jackal. 

“ Now,” gasped Jakin, “Tl give you what-for.” 
He proceeded to pound the man’s features while Lew 
stamped on the outlying portions of his anatomy. 
Chivalry is not a strong point in the composition of 
the average drummer-boy. He fights, as do his 
betters, to make his mark. 

Ghastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful was 
the wrath of the Bazar-Sergeant. Awful too was 


270 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


the scene in Orderly-room when the two reprobates 
appeared to answer the charge of half-murdering 
a “civilian.” The Bazar-Sergeant thirsted for a 
criminal action, and his son lied. The boys stood to 
attention wile the black clouds of evidence ac- 
cumulated. 

“ You little devils are more frouble than the rest 
of the Regiment put together,” said the Colonel an- 
grily. “One might as well admonish thistledown, 
and [ can’t well put you in cells or under stoppages. 
You must be flogged again.” 

“Beg y’ pardon, Sir. Can’t we say nothin’ in our 
own defense, Sir?” shrilled Jakin. 


“Hey! What? Are you going to argue with 


me?” gaid the Colonel. | 
“No, Sir,” said Lew. ‘“ Butif a man come to you, 
Sir, and said he was going to report you, Sir, for 
’aving a bit of a turn-up with a friend, Sir, an’ 
wanted to get money out 0’ you, Sir-——” — 
The Orderly-room exploded in a roar of ena 
“Well?” said the Colonel. 
“That was what that measly jarnwar there did, 
Sir, and ’e’d ’a’ done it, Sir, if we ’adn’t proven! 


‘im. We didn’t “it im aes Sir. *E ’adn’t no man- — 
ner o’ right to interfere with us, Sir. Idon’t mind 
bein’ flogged by the Drum-Major, Sir, nor yet re- — 


ported by any Corp’ral, but ’m—but I don’t think 
it’s fair, Sir, for a a to come an’ talk over a 
man in the a es 

A second shout of ines shook the Orderly: 
room, but the Colonel was grave. 


oe 
SO 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 271 


“ What sort of characters have these boys?” he 
asked of the Regimental Sergeant-Mayjor. 

“ Accordin’ to the Bandmaster, Sir,” returned that 
revered official—the only soul in iH regiment whom 
the boys feared—“ they do everything but lie, 
Sir.” 

“Ts it like we’d go for that man for fun, Sir?” 
said Lew, pointing to the plaintiff. 

“Oh, admonished,—admonished!” said the Colonel 
festily, and when the boys had gone he read the 
Bazar-Sergeant’s son a lecture on the sin of unprofit- 
_ able meddling, and gave orders that the Bandmaster 
should keep the Drums in better discipline. 

“If either of you come to practise again with so 
much as a scratch on your two ugly little faces,” 
thundered the Bandmaster, “ Pll tell the Drum-Major 
to take the skin off your backs. Understand that, 
you young devils.” 

Then he repented of his speech for just the length 
of time that Lew, looking like a Seraph in red 
worsted embellishments, took the place of one of the 
trumpets—in hospital—and rendered the echo of a 
battle-piece. Lew certainly was a musician, and 
had often in his more exalted moments expressed a 
yearning to master every instrument of the Band. 

“There’s nothing to prevent your becoming a 
Bandmaster, Lew,” said the Bandmaster, who had 
composed waltzes of his own, and worked day and 
night in the interests of the Band. 

“What did he say?” demanded Jakin after 
practise. 


272. THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT, 


“Said I might be a bloomin’ Bandmaster, an’ be 
asked in to ’ave a glass o’ sherry-wine on Mess- 
nights.” | 

“ Ho! ?’Said you might be a bloomin’ noncom- 
batant, did ’e! That’s just about wot ’e would say. 
When I’ve put in my boy’s service—it’s a bloomin’ 
shame that doesn’t count for pensions—I’ll take on 
a privit. Then I’ll be a Lance in a year—knowin’ 
what I know about the ins an’ outs o’ things. In 
three years [ll be a bloomin’ Sergeant. I won’t 
marry then, not I! Ill ’old on and learn the orf’- 
cers’ ways an’ apply for exchange into a reg’ment 
that doesn’t know all about me. Then [ll be a 
bloomin’ orf’cer. Then [Pll ask you to ’ave a glass 
o’ sherry-wine, Aister Lew, an’ you'll bloomin’ well 
’ave to stay in the hanty-room while the Mess-Ser- 
geant brings it to your dirty ’ands.” 

“* °S’pose /’m going to be a Bandmaster? Not I, 
quite. ll beaorf’certoo. There’s nothin’ like tak- 
ing to a thing an’ stickin’ to it, the Schoolmaster 
says. The reg’ment don’t go’ome for another seven 
years. Ill be a Lance then or near to.” 

Thus the boys discussed their futures, and con- 
ducted themselves with exemplary piety for a week. 
That is to say, Lew started a flirtation with the — 
Color-Sergeant’s daughter, aged thirteen—“ not,” — 
as he explained to Jakin, “with any intention 0’ 
matrimony, but by way o’ keepin’ my ’and in.” 
And the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed that 
flirtation more than previous ones, and the other 
drummer-boys raged furiously together, and Jakin 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 273 


preached sermons on the dangers of “ bein’ tangled 
along o’ petticoats.” 

But neither love nor virtue would have held Lew 
long in the paths of propriety had not the rumor 
_ gone abroad that the Regiment was to be sent on 
active service, to take part in a war which, for the 
sake of brevity, we will call “The War of the Lost 
Tribes.” 

The barracks had the rumor almost before the 
Mess-room, and of all the nine hundred men in bar- 
racks not ten had seen a shot firedin anger. The Col- 
onel had, twenty years ago, assisted at a Frontier 
_ expedition; one of the Majors had seen service at 
the Cape; a confirmed deserter in EK Company had 
helped to clear streets in Ireland; but that was all. 
The Regiment had been put by for many years. 
The overwhelming mass of its rank and file had 
from three to four years’ service ; the non-commis- 
sioned officers were under thirty years old and men 
and sergeants alike had forgotten to speak of the 
stories written in brief upon the Colors—the New 
Colors that had been formally blessed by an Arch- 
bishop in England ere the Regiment came away. 

They wanted to go to the Front—they were en- 
thusiastically anxious to go—but they had no knowl- 
edge of what war meant, and there was none to 
tell them. They were an educated regiment, the 
percentage of school-certificates in their ranks was 
high, and most of the men could do more than read 
and write. They had been recruited in loyal observ- 


ance of the territorial idea; but they themselves had 
18 


274 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND APT. 


no notion of that idea. They were made up of 
drafts from an over-populated manufacturing district. 
The system had put flesh and muscle upon their 
small bones, but it could not put heart into the sons — 
of those who for generations had done overmuch 
work for overscanty pay, had sweated in drying- 
rooms, stooped over looms, coughed among white- 
lead and shivered on lime-barges. The men had 
found food and rest in the Army, and now they — 
“were going to fight “niggers”—people who ran 
away if you shooka stick atthem. Wherefore they 
cheered lustily when the rumor ran, and the shrewd, 
clerkly, non-commissioned officers speculated on the 
chances of battle and of saving their pay. At Head- 
quarters, men said :—‘‘ The Fore and Fit have never — 
been under fire within the last generation. Let us, 
therefore, break them in easily by setting them to 
guard lines of communication.” And this would 
have been done but for the fact that British Regi- 
ments were wanted—badly wanted—at the Front, — 
and there were doubtful Native Regiments that 
could fill the minor duties. “‘ Brigade ’em withtwo — 
strong Regiments,” said Headquarters. “They may 
be knocked about a bit, but they’ll learn their busi- 
ness before they come through. Nothing like a — 
night-alarm anda little cutting-up of stragglers to 
make a Regiment smart in the field. Wait till 
they’ve had half a dozen sentries’ throats cut.” 
The Colonel wrote with delight that the temper — 
of his men was excellent, that the Regiment was all — 
that could be wished and as sound asa bell. The © 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 275 


_ Majors smiled with a sober joy, and the subalterns 

- waltzed in pairs down the Mess-room after dinner 
and nearly shot themselves at revolver-practise. 
But there was consternation in the hearts of Jakin 
and Lew. What was to be done with the drums? 
Would the Band go to the Front? How many of 
the drums would accompany the Regiment ? 

They took council together, sitting in a tree and 
smoking. 

“Tt’s more than a bloomin’ toss-up they’ll leave us 
be’ind at the Depot with the women. You'll like 
that,’ said Jakin sarcastically. 

“*Oause o’ Cris, vy mean? Wot’s a woman, ora 
’ole blooming’ depot o’ women, ’longside o’ the 
chanst of field-service? You know I’m as keen on 
goin’ as you,” said Lew. 

“ *Wish I was a bloomin’ bugler,”’ said Jakin 
sadly. “They’ll take Tom Kidd along, that I can 
plaster a wall with, an’ like as not they won’t take 
ws.’ 3s 

“Then let’s go an’ make Tom Kidd so bloomin’ 
sick ’e can’t bugle no more. You ’old ’is ’ands an’ 
Vl kick him,” said Lew, wriggling on the branch. 

“That ain’t no good neither. We ain’t the sort 
©’ characters to presoon on our rep’tations—they’re 
bad. If they have the Band at the depédt we don’t 
go, and no error there. If they take the Band we 
may get cast for medical unfitness. Are you medi- 
eal fit, Piggy?” said Jakin, digging Lew in the ribs 
with force. 

“Yus,” said Lew with an oath. “The Doctor 


°76 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT, 


says your ’eart’s weak through smokin’ on an empty 
stummick. Throw a chest an’ I'll try yer.” 

Jakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote with 
all his might. Jakin turned very pale, gasped, 
crowed, screwed up his eyes and said,—“ That’s all 
- right.” 2 

“ You'll do,” said Lew. “I’ve ’eard o’ men dyin’ 
when you ’it ’em fair on the breastbone.” 


“?Don’t bring us no nearer goin’, though,” said — 


Jakin. ‘“ Do you know where we’re ordered ?” 

“ Gawd knows, an’ ’e won’t split ona pal. Some- 
wheres up to the Front to kill Paythans—hairy big 
beggars that turn you inside out if they get ’old 
o you. Theysay their women are good-looking, 
too.” | 

“ Any loot?” asked the abandoned Jakin. 

“Not a bloomin’ anna, they say, unless you dig 
up the ground an’ see what the niggers ’ave ’id. 
They’re a poor lot.” Jakin stood upright on the 
branch and gazed across the plain. 

“Lew,” said he, “there’s the Colonel coming. 
’Colonel’s a good old beggar. Let’s go an’ talk to 
Im.” 


Lew nearly fell out of the tree at the audacity of — 


the suggestion. Like Jakin he feared not God 
neither regarded he Man, but there are limits even — 
to the audacity of drummer-boys, and to speak to a_ 
Colonel was .. . me 

But Jakin had slid down the trunk and doubled 
in the direction of the Colonel. That officer was 
walking wrapped in thought and visions ofa C. B.— 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 277 


yes, even a K. C. B., for had he not at command one 
of the best Regiments of the Line—the Fore and 
Fit? And he was aware of two small boys charging 
down upon him. Once before it had been solemnly 
reported to him that “the Drums were in a state of 
mutiny ;” Jakin and Lew being the ringleaders. 
This looked like an organized conspiracy. 

The boys halted at twenty yards, walked to the 
regulation four paces, and saluted together, each as 
well set-up as a ramrod and little taller. 

The Colonel was in a genial mood ; the boys ap- 
peared very forlorn and unprotected on the desolate 
plain, and one of them was handsome. 

“Well!” said the Colonel, recognizing them. 
“ Are you going to pull me down in the open? 
I’m sure I never interfere with you, even though—” 
he sniffed suspiciously—“ you have been smoking.” 

It was time to strike while the iron was hot. 
Their hearts beat tumultuously. 

“ Beg y’ pardon, Sir,” began Jakin. “The Reg’- 
ment’s ordered on active service, Sir?” 

‘So I believe,” said the Colonel courteously. 

“Ts the band goin’, Sir?” said both together. 
Then, without pause, “ We’re goin’, Sir, ain’t we ? ” 

“You!” said the Colonel, stepping back the 
more fully to take in the two small figures. “You! 
You’d die in the first march.” 

“No, we wouldn’t, Sir. Wecan march with the 
Regiment anywheres—p’rade an’ anywhere else,” 
said Jakin. 

“Tf Tom Kidd goes ’e’ll shut up like a clasp- 


278 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. _ 


knife,” said Lew. “Tom ’as very close veins in 
both ’is legs, Sir.” a ie 
“Very how much ?” ae 
“ Very close veins, Sir. That’s why they swells 
after long p’rade, Sir. If ’e can go, we can go, Sir.” 
Again ARG Colonel looked at them long and in- a 
oo aio. 
“ Yes, the Band is going,” he said as gravely 2 as 
though he had been addressing a brother officer. _ 
“ Have you any parents, either of you two?” 
“No, Sir,” rejoicingly from Lew and J akin. s 
‘We’re both orphans, Sir. There’s no one to be 4 
considered of on our account, Sir.” : 
“You poor little sprats, and you want to go ‘up 
to the Front with the Regiment, do you? Why?” — 
“ Tve wore the Queen’s Uniform for two years,” 8 
said Jakin. “It’s very ’ard, Sir, that a man don’t a 
get no Oe for doin’ ee dooty, Sir.” | 
“ An’—an’ if I don’t go, Sir,” ne Lew, 
“The Bandmaster ’e says ’e’ll catch an’ make a — 
bloo—a blessed musician o’ me, Sir. Before Dve~ — 
seen any service, Sir.” = 
’ The Colonel made no answer fon a long time. — 
Then he said quietly :—“If you’re passed by the 
Doctor I dare ee you can go. I shouldn’t se 
if I were you.” 
The boys saluted and disappeared. The Golonele 
walked home and told the story to his wife, ie 
nearly cried over it. The Colonel was well pleased. 
If that was the temper of the children, what would a 
not the men: do ? Bae 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 279 


Jakin and Lew entered the boys’ barrack-room 
with great stateliness, and refused to hold any con- 
versation with their comrades for at least ten min- 
utes. Then, bursting with pride, Jakin drawled :— 
“T’ve bin intervooin’ the Colonel. Good old beggar 
is the Colonel. Says I to ’im, ‘Colonel,’ says I, ‘let 
me go to the Front, along o’ the Reg’ment.’. ‘To 
the Front you shall go,’ says ’e, ‘an’ I only wish 
there was more like you among the dirty little 
devils that bang the bloomin’ drums.’ Kidd, if 
you throw your ’couterments at me for tellin’ 
you the truth to your own advantage, your legs’ll 
swell.” 

None the less there was a Battle-Royal in the 
barrack-room, for the boys were consumed with 
envy and hate, and neither Jakin nor Lew behaved 
in conciliatory wise. 

“I’m goin’ out to say adoo to my girl,” said Lew, 
to cap the climax. “ Don’t none o’ you touch my 

kit because it’s wanted for active service, me bein’ 
- specially invited to go by the Colonel.” 

He strolled forth and whistled in the clump of 
trees at the back of the Married Quarters till Cris 
came to him, and, the preliminary kisses being given 
and taken, Lew began to explain the situation. 

“Tm goin’ to the Front with the Reg’ment,” he 
said, valiantly. 

“Pigey, youre a little liar,” said Cris, but her 
heart misgave her, for Lew was not in the habit of 
lying. 

“Liar yourself, Cris,’ said Lew, slipping an arm 


280 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


round her. “Pm goin’. When the Reg’ment 
marches out you'll see me with ’em, all galliant and — 
gay. Give us another kiss, a8 on the strength 
of it.” 

“Tf you’d on’y a-stayed at fie Depot—where you 
ought to ha’ bin—you could get as many of *em as— 
as you dam please,” whimpered Cris, putting up her 
mouth. 

“Tt’s ’ard,Cris. I grant youit’s’ard. But what’s 
a man to do? If Id a-stayed at the Depot, you 
wouldn’t think anything of me.” 

“ Like as not, but ’d ’ave you with me, Piggy. 
Aw all the thinkin’ in the world isn’t like kissin’.” 

“ An’ all the kissin’ in the world isn’t like ’avin’ 
a medal to wear on the front 0’ your coat.” 

“ You won't get no medal.” 

“Oh, yus, I shall though. Me an’ Jakin are the 
only acting-drummers that’ll be took along. All 
the rest is full men, an’ we'll get our medals with 
them.” 

“They might ha’ taken anybody but you, Pigey. 
Yowll get Talled gay re so venturesome. Stay 


with me, Piggy, darlin’, down at the Depot, an’ Pll — 


love you true forever.” 
; Ain't yeu goin’ to do that now, Cris? You said 
you was.’ 
“ O’ course Iam, but th’ other’s more contort 


Wait till you’ve me a bit, Piggy. You aren’t a 


no taller than me now.” 
“T’ve bin in the Army for two years an’ I’m not 
goin’ to get out ofa chanst 0’ seein’ service an’ don’t 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 281 


you try to make me do so. [’ll come back, Cris, an’ 


when I take on as a man [’ll marry you—marry you 
when I’m a Lance.” 

“ Promise, Piggy ? ” 

Lew reflected on the future as arranged by Jakin 
a short time previously, but Cris’s mouth was very 
near to his own. 

“T promise, s’elp me Gawd!” said he. 

- Cris slid an arm round his neck. 

“T won’t ’old you back no more, Piggy. Goaway 
an’ get your medal, an’ I’ll make you a new button- 
bag as nice as I know how,” she whispered. 

“ Put some o’ your ’air into it, Cris, an’ [ll keep 
it in my pocket so long’s I’m alive.” 

Then Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. 
Public feeling among the drummer-boys rose to fever 
pitch and the lives of Jakin and Lew became unenvi- 
able. Not only had they been permitted to enlist 
two years before the regulation boy’s age—fourteen 
—but, by virtue, it seemed, of their extreme youth, 
they were allowed to go to the Front—which thing 
had not happened to acting-drummers within the 
knowledge of boy. The Band which was to accom- 
pany the Regiment had been cut down to the reg- 
ulation twenty men, the surplus returning to the— 
ranks. Jakin and Lew were attached to the Band 
as supernumeraries, though they would much have 
preferred being Company buglers. 

“Don’t matter much,” said Jakin after the medi- 

eal inspection. ‘‘ Be thankful that we’re “lowed to 
goat all. The Doctor ’e said that if we could stand 


282 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT, 


what we took Men the Bazar Sergeant’s son we'd ee 


stand pretty nigh anything.” 


“Which we will,” said Lew, looking fonder ab = 
the ragged and nde housewite that Cris had~ 


given iia. with a lock of her hair worked into a 
sprawling “ L” upon the cover. 


Peo ees oe eee 
Ea PR ea by a te 


Se Un ty Peewee 
BOA Teena. See ih res 


“‘ Tt was the best I could,” shesobbed. “I wouldn’t . 
let mother nor the Bo See tailor ’elp me. Keep 


it always, Piggy, an’ remember I love you true.” 


They marched to the railway station, nine hundred 
and sixty strong, and every soul in cantonments 
turned out to see them go. The drummers gnashed — 


their teeth at Jakin and Lew marching with the 
Band, the married women wept upon the platform, 


and the Regiment cheered its noble self black in os 


face. 


“ A nice level lot,” said the Colonel to the Second- __ 
in-Command as they watched the first four com- os 


panies entraining. 


“Fit to do anything,” said the Second-in-Com- 


mand enthusiastically. “ Butit seems to me they’re 
a thought too young and tender for the work in 
hand. It’s bitter cold up at the Front now.” 


“ They’re sound enough,” said the Colonel. “We — | 


must take our chance of sick casualties.” 


So they went northward, ever northward, past — : 


droves and droves of camels, armies of camp fol- 
lowers, and legions of laden mules, the throng 


thickening day by day, till with a shriek the train ae 


pulled up at a hopelessly congested junction’ where 
six lines of temporary track accommodated six forty- 


a 
* 
= 
§ 
* 
3 
q 


? foe 
itm 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 283 


wagon trains; where whistles blew, Babus sweated 
and Commissariat officers swore from dawn till far 


into the night amid the wind-driven chaff of the fod- 
der-bales and the lowing of a thousand steers. 

“ Hurry up—you’re badly wanted at the Front,” 
was the message that greeted the Fore and Aft, and 


the occupants of the Red Cross carriages told the 


same tale. 

“?Tisn’t so much the bloomin’ fighting,” gasped 
a headbound trooper of Hussars to a knot of admir- 
ing Fore and Afts. “’Tisn’t so much the bloomin’ 
fightin’, though there’s enough o’ that. It’s the 
bloomin’ food an’ the bloomin’ climate. Frost all 
night ’cept when it hails, and diling sun all day, 
and the water stinks fit to knock you down. I got 
my ’ead chipped like a egg; I’ve got pneumonia 
too, an’ my guts isall out o’ order. ’Tain’t no 
bloomin’ picnic in those parts, I can tell you.” 

“Wot are the niggers like?” demanded a pri- 
vate. 

“There’s some prisoners in that train yonder. 
Go an’ look at ’em. They’re the aristocracy o’ the 
country. The common folk are a dashed sight ug- 
lier. If you want to know what they fight with, 
reach under my seat an’ pull out the long knife 
that’s there.” 

They dragged out and beheld for the first time 
the grim, bone-handled, triangular Afghan knife. 
It was almost as long as Lew. 

“That’s the thing to jint ye,” said the trooper 
feebly. 


984 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


“Tt can take offa man’s arm at the shoulder as 
easy as slicing butter. I halved the beggar that — 
used that ’un, but there’s more of his likes up above. 
They don’t understand thrustin’, but they’re devils 
to slice.” 

The men strolled across the tracks to inspect the 
Afghan prisoners. They wereunlike any “niggers” — 


that the Fore and Aft had ever met—these huge, 
black-haired, scowling sons of the Beni-Israel. As _ 


the men stared the Afghans spat freely and mut- 
tered one to another with lowered eyes. 

“My eyes! Wot awful swine!” said Jakin, ane 
was in the rear of the procession. “Say, old man, 
how you got puckrowed, eh? Kiswastt you wasn’t 
hanged for your ugly face, hey ?” 

The tallest of the company turned, his leg-irons 
clanking at the movement, and stared at the boy. 


“See!” he cried to his fellow in Pushto. “They — 


send children against us. Whata pee, and what — 
fools!” 

“ Hya!” said Jakin, nodding his head shee: 
“You go down-country. hana get, peentkapanee 
beh cline like a bloomin’ Raja ke marfik.’ That’sa — 
better bandobust than baynit get it in your innards. 
Good-by, ole man. Take care o’ your beautiful - | 
figure’ed, an’ try to look kushy.” 

The men laughed and fell in for their first march 
when they began to realize that a soldier’s life was 
not all beer and skittles. They were much im- 
pressed with the size and bestial ferocity of the nig- 
gers whom they had now learned to call “ Paythans,” 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 285 


and more with the exceeding discomfort of their 
ownsurroundings. Twenty old soldiers in the corps 
would have taught them how to make themselves 
moderately snug at night, but they had no old 
soldiers, and, as the troops on the line of march 
said, ‘‘they lived like pigs.” They learned the 
heartbreaking cussedness of camp-kitchens and 
camels and the depravity of an E. P. tent and a 
wither-wrung mule, They studied animalcule in 
water, and developed a few cases of. dysentery in 
their study. 

At the end of their third march they were disa- 
greeably surprised by the arrival in their camp of a 
_ hammered iron slug which, fired from a steadyrest 
at seven hundred yards, flicked out the brains of a 
private seated by the fire. This robbed them of 
their peace for a night, and was the beginning of a 
long-range fire carefully calculated to thatend. In 
the daytime they saw nothing except an occasional 
puff of smoke from a crag above the line of march. 
At night there were distant spurts of flame and oc- 
casional casualties, which set the whole camp blaz- 
ing into the gloom, and, occasionally, into opposite 
tents. Then they swore vehemently and vowed that 
this was magnificent but not war. 

Indeed it was not. The Regiment could not halt 
for reprisals against the franc-tireurs of the country- 
side. Its duty was to go forward and make connec- 
tion with the Scotch and Gurkha troops with which 
it was brigaded. The Afghans knew this, and knew 
too, after their first tentative shots, that they were 


986 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. ae s 
dealing with a raw regiment. Thereafter they de- =. 
voted themselves to the task of keeping the Fore — 
and Aft on the strain. Not for anything would 
they have taken equal liberties with a seasoned 


corps—with the wicked little Gurkhas, whose de- 
light it was to lie out inthe open on a dark night 
and stalk their stalkers-_with the terrible, big men 
dressed in women’s clothes, who could be heard — : 


praying to their God in the night-watches, and 


whose peace of mind no amount of “sniping” could 


shake—or with those vile Sikhs, who marched so 
ostentatiously unprepared and who dealt out such ~ 
grim reward to those who tried to profit by that 
unpreparedness. This white regiment was different 


—quite different. It slept like a hog, and, like a — 


5) 3 
hog, charged in every direction when it was roused. 


Its sentries walked with a footfall that could be 


heard for a quarter of a mile; would fire at anything | 5 


that moved—even a driven donkey—and when they - 


had once fired, could be scientifically “rushed” and 
laid out a horror and an offense against the morn- 


ing sun. Then there were camp-followers who 


straggled and could be cut up without fear. Their — 
shrieks would disturb the white boys, andthelossof — 


their services would inconvenience them sorely. | 
Thus, at every march, the hidden enemy became. 
bolder and the regiment writhed and twisted under — 


attacks it could not avenge. Thecrowning triumph 
was a sudden night-rush ending in the cutting of many 
tent-ropes, the collapse of the sodden canvas anda __ 


glorious knifing of the men who struggled and 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND arr. 287 


kicked below. It was a great deed, neatly carried 
out, and it shook the already shaken nerves of the 
Fore and Aft. All the courage that they had been 
required to exercise up to this point was the “ two 
o’clock in the morning courage;” and they, so far, 
had only succeeded in shooting their comrades and 
losing their sleep. _ 

Sullen, discontented, cold, savage, sick, with their 
uniforms dulled and unclean, the “ Fore and Aft” 
joined their Brigade. 

“T hear you had a tough time of it coming up,” 
said the Brigadier. But when he saw the hospital- 
sheets his face fell. 

“This is bad,” said he to himself. ‘“ They’re as 
rotten as sheep.” And aloud to the Colonel,— ’m 


afraid we can’t spare you just yet. We want all 


we have, else I should. have given you ten days to 
recruit in.” | 

The Colonel winced. “On my honor, Sir,” he 
returned, “there is not the least necessity to think 
of sparing us. My men have been rather mauled 
and upset without a fair return. They only want 
to go in somewhere where they can see what’s 
before them.” 

“ Can’t say I think much of the Fore and Fit,” 


said the Brigadier in confidence to his Brigade- 


Major. “ They’ve lost all their soldiering, and, by 
the trim of them, might have marched through the 
country from the other side. A more fagged-out 
set of men I never put eyes on.” 

“Oh, they’ll improve as the work goes on. The 


988 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


parade gloss has been rubbed off a little, but theyll 
put on field polish before long,” said the Brigade- 
Major. ‘“They’ve been mauled, and they quite 
don’t understand it.” 

They did not. All the hitting was on one side, 
and it was cruelly hard hitting with accessories that 
made them sick. There was also the real sickness 
that laid hold of a strong man and dragged him 
howling to the grave. Worst of all, their officers 
knew just as little of the country as the men them- 
selves, and looked as if they did. The Foreand Aft 
were in a thoroughly unsatisfactory condition, but 
they believed that all would be well if they could 
once get a fair go-in at the enemy. Pot-shots up 
and down the valleys were unsatisfactory, and the 
bayonet never seemed to get a chance. Perhaps it 
was as well, for a long-limbed Afghan with a knife 


-.hada reach of eight feet, and could carry away 


enough lead to disable three Englishmen. The 
Fore and Fit would like some rifle-practise at the 
enemy-——all seven hundred rifles blazing together. 
That wish showed the mood of the men. oe 

The Gurkhas walked into their camp, and in 
broken, barrack-room English strove to fraternize 
with them; offered them pipes of tobacco and stood 
them treat at the canteen. But the Fore and Aft, 
not knowing much of the nature of the Gurkhas, 
treated them as they would treat any other “ nig- 
gers,” and the little men in green trotted back to 
their firm friends the Highlanders, and with many 
grins confided to them :—“ That dam white regiment 


[HE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND Arr. 289 


no dam use. Sulky—ugh! Dirty—ugh! Hya, 
any tot for Johnny?” whereat the Highlanders 
smote the Gurkhas as to the head, and told them 
not to vilify a British Regiment, ‘ind the Gurkhas 
grinned cavernously, for the Highlanders were their 
elder brothers and entitled to itig privileges of kin- 
ship. The common soldier who touches a Gurkha 
is more than likely to have his head sliced open. 

Three days later the Brigadier arranged a battle 
according to the rules of war and the peculiarity of 
the Afghan temperament. The enemy were massing 
in inconvenient strength among the hills, and the 
moving of many green standards warned him that 
the tribes were “up” in aid of the Afghan regular 
troops. A Squadron and a half of Bengal Lancers 
represented the available Cavalry, and two screw- 
guns borrowed from a column thirty miles away, the 
Artillery at the General’s disposal. 

“If they stand, as I’ve a very strong notion that 
they will, I fancy we shall see an infantry fight that 
will be worth watching,” said the Brigadier. “ We'll 
do it in style. Each regiment shall be played into 
action by its Band, and we’ll hold the Cavalry in 
reserve.” i 

“For all the reserve?” somebody asked. 

“For all the reserve; because we’re going to 
crumple them up,” said the Brigadier, who was an 
extraordinary Brigadier, and did not believe in the 
value of areserve when dealing with Asiatics. And, 
indeed, when you come to think of it, had the Brit- 
ish Army consistently waited for reserves in all its 

£9 


990 THE DRUMS OF THE Fong AND AFT, 


little affairs, the boundaries of Our Empire vould e oe 


have shopped at Brighton beach. 
That battle was to be a glorious battle. 


The three regiments debouching from three sepa- : 
rate gorges, after duly crowning the heights above, = 


were to converge from the center, left, and right 
upon what we will call the Afghan army, then sta- 
tioned towards the lower extremity of a flat-bot-— 


tomed valley. Thus it will be seen that three sides : 


of the valley practically belonged to the English, 


while the fourth was strictly Afghan property. In- 


the event of defeat the Afghans had the rocky 
hills to fly to, where the fire from the guerilla tribes 
in aid would cover their retreat. -In the event of 
victory these same tribes would rush down and lend 
their weight to the rout of the British. 

The screw-guns were to shell the head of each 
Afghan rush that was made in close formation, and 
the Cavalry, held in reserve in the right valley, were 
to gently stimulate the break-up which would follow 
on the combined attack. The Brigadier, sitting 
upona rock overlooking the valley, would watch the 
battle unrolled at his feet. The Fore and Aft would 
debouch from the central gorge, the Gurkhas from ~ 


the left, and the Highlanders from the right, forthe _ = 


reason that the left flank of the enemy seemed as 


though it required the most hammering. It was 


not every day that an Afghan force would take 
ground in the open, and the “Brigadier was resolved 
to make the most of it. 

“Tf we only had a few more men,” he said plain- 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT, 291 


tively, “ we could surround the creatures and crumble 
’em up thoroughly. As itis, ’m afraid we can only 
cut them up as they run. It’s a great pity.” 

The Fore and Aft had enjoyed unbroken peace 
for five days, and were beginning, in spite of dysen- 
tery, to recover their nerve. But they were not 


_ happy, for they did not know the work in hand, 
~ and had they known, would not have known how 


to doit. Throughout those five days in which old 


- soldiers might have taught them the craft of the 


game, they discussed together their misadventures 
in the past—how such an one was alive at dawn and 
dead ere the dusk, and with what shrieks and 
strugeles such another had given up his soul under 
the Afghan knife. Death was a new and horrible 


thing to the sons of mechanics who were used to 


die decently of zymotic disease; and their careful 
conservation in barracks had done nothing to make 
them look upon it with less dread. 

Very early in the dawn the bugles began to blow, 
and the Fore and Aft, filled with a misguided 
enthusiasm, turned out without waiting for a cup 
of coffee and a biscuit; and were rewarded by be- 
ing kept under arms in the cold while the other 
regiments leisurely prepared for the fray. All the 
world knows that it is ill taking the breeks off a 
Highlander. It is much iller to try to make him 
stir unless he is convinced of the necessity for 
haste. 

The Fore and Aft waited, leaning upon their 
rifles and listening to the protests of their empty 


992 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AF, 


stomachs. The Colonel did his best to remedy thé 
default of lining as soon as it was borne in upon 
him that the affair would not begin at once, and so — 
well did he succeed that the coffee was just ready 
when—the men moved off, their Band leading. 
Even then there had been a mistake in time, and 
the Fore and Aft came out into the valley ten 
minutes before the proper hour. Their Band 
wheeled to the right after reaching the open, and 
retired behind a little rocky knoll still Pyare while — 
the regiment went past. 

It was not a pleasant sight that opened on the 
uninstructed view, for the lower end of the valley 
appeared to be filled by an army in position—real 
and actual regiments attired in red coats, and—of 
this there was no doubt—firmg Martini-Henri 
bullets which cut up the ground a hundred yards in 
front of the leading company. Over that pock- 
marked ground the regiment had to pass, and it 
opened the ball with a general and profound 
courtesy to the piping pickets; ducking in perfect 
time, as though it had been brazed on a rod. Being 
half-capable of thinking for itself, it fired a volley 
by the simple process of pitching its rifle into its 
shoulder and pulling the trigger. The bullets 
may have accounted for some of the watchers on 
the hillside, but they certainly did not affect the 
mass of enemy in front, while the noise of the © 
rifles drowned any orders that might have been 


given. 
“ Good God ! 1 said the Brigadier, sitting on the 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 293 


- rock high above all. “That regiment has spoilt 


the whole show. Hurry up the others, and let the 
screw-guns get off.” 

But the screw-guns, in working round the heights, 
had stumbled upon a wasp’s nest of a small mud 
fort which they incontinently shelled at eight 
hundred yards, to the huge discomfort of the 


_ occupants, who were unaccustomed to weapons of 


such devilish precision. 

The Fore and Aft continued to go forward but 
with shortened stride. Where were the other regi- 
ments, and why did these niggers use Martinis ? 
They took open order instinctively lying down and 
firing at random, rushing a few paces forward and 
lying down again, according to the regulations. 
Once in this formation, each man felt himself des- 
perately alone, and edged in towards his fellow for 
comfort’s sake. 

Then the crack of his neighbor’s rifle at his ear 
led him to fire as rapidly as he could—again for 
the sake of the comfort of the noise. The reward 
was not long delayed. Five volleys plunged the 
files in banked smoke impenetrable to the eye, and 
the bullets began to take ground twenty or thirty 
yards in front of the firers, as the weight of the 
bayonets dragged down, and to the right arms 
wearied with holding the kick of the leaping Mar- 
tini. The Company Commanders peered helplessly 
through the smoke, the more nervous mechanically 
trying to fan it away with their helmets. 

“ High and to the left!” bawled a Captain till he 


994 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. S Ss oe | 


was hoarse. “No good! Cease face and let it 
drift away a bit.” 

Three and four times the bugles shrieked the 
order, and when it was obeyed the Fore and Aft — 


looked that their foe should be lying before them in 


mown swaths of men. A light wind drove the smoke — 


to leeward, and showed the enemy still in position Be ‘ 


and apparently unaffected. A quarter of a ton of — 
lead had been buried a furlong in front of vee as. 
the ragged earth attested. 

That was not demoralizing. They were waiting — 
for the mad riot to die down, and were firing quietly — 
into the heart of the smoke. <A private of the Fore 
and Aft spun up his company shrieking with agony, - 
another was kicking the earth and gasping, and a 


third ripped through the lower intestines by ajagged _ e 


bullet, was calling aloud on his comrades to put him 


out of his pain. These were the casualities, and 


they were not soothing to hear or see. The smoke — 
cleared to a dull haze. 

Then the foe began to shout with a great shoatine 
and a mass——a black mass—detached itself from the 


main body, and rolled over the ground at horrid 

speed. It was composed of, perhaps, threehundred 
men, who would shout and fire and slash ifthe rush - 
of their fifty comrades who were determined to die 
carriedhome. The fifty were Ghazis, half-maddened ee 


with drugs and wholly mad with religious fanaticism. 


When they rushed the British fire ceased, and in the ~ S 


lull the order was given to close ranks and meet 
them with the bayonet. , 


re 


Oe a em 
3 wn Ve OAty | 


4 a 


Me ET OR EaRR PRY PU UH DEN ET irate 
. : * f 


be 


Ae Ane ye Ng 


hpi aCe M Eu Sa Sua Gee 
, re ut a f Oa an ae V 
) A ; fests 


- 
ey 


at ee ee 
A as 3 


Leer Aone ae Le <i 
Nts ‘i bt ¥ i sy P| 


aah 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 295 


Any one who knew the business could have told 
the Fore and Aft that the only way of dealing with 
a Ghazi rush is by volleys at long ranges; because 
a man who means to die, who desires to die, who 
will gain heaven by dying, must, in nine cases out of 
ten, kill aman who has a lingering prejudice in favor 
of life if he can close with the latter. Where they 
could have closed and gone forward, the Fore and 
Aft opened out and skirmished, and where they 


should have opened out and fired, they closed and 


waited. 

A man dragged from his blankets half awake and 
unfed is never in a pleasant frame of mind. Nor 
does his happiness increase when he watches the 
whites of the eyes of three hundred six-foot fiends 
upon whose beards the foam is lying, upon whose 
tongues is a roar of wrath, and in whose hands are 
three-foot knives. 

The Fore and Aft heard the Gurkha bugles bring- 


ing that regiment forward at the double, while the 


neighing of the Highland pipes came from the 
left. They strove to stay where they were, though 
the bayonets wavered down the line like the oars of a 
ragged boat. Then they felt body to body the 
amazing physical strength of their foes; a shriek of 
pain ended the rush, and the knives fell amid scenes 
not to be told. The men clubbed together and 


smote blindly—as often as not at their own fellows. 


Their front crumbled like paper, and the fifty 
Ghazis passed on; their backers, now drunk with 
success, fighting as madly as they. 


296 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


Then the rear-ranks were bidden to close up, and 
the subalterns dashed into the stew—alone. Forthe 
rear-rank had heard the clamor in front, the yells, 
and the howls of pain, and had seen the dark stale 
blood that makes afraid. They were not going to 
stay. It was the rushing of the camps over again. 
Let their officers go to Hell, if they chose; they 
would get away from the cies 

“Come on!” shrieked the subalterns, and their 
men, cursing them, drew back, each Aca into his 
neighbor and wheeling round. 

Charteris and Devlin, subalterns of the last com- 
pany, faced their death alone in the belief that their 
men would follow. 

“‘ You’ve killed me, you cowards,” sobbed Devlin 
and dropped, cut from the shoulder-strap to the 
center of the chest, and a fresh detachment of his 
men retreating, always retreating, trampled him 
underfoot as they made for the pass whence eee 
had emerged. 

I kissed her in the kitchen and I reise her in the hall. 
Child@’un, child’un, follow me! 

Oh, Golly, said the cook, is he gwine to kiss us all ? 
Halla—Halla—Halla Hallelujah ! 

The Gurkhas were pouring through the left gorge 
and over the heights at the double to the invitation 
of their regimental Quick-step. The black rocks 
were crowned with dark green spiders as the bugles — 
gave tongue jubilantly :— 

In the morning! In the morning by the bright light! — 
When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning ! 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 297 


The Gurkha rear-companies tripped and blundered 


-_ over loose stones. The front-files halted for a mo- 


AU Beans NS it A ahdcay ate aula) Stftas (Te Ay eee pit NEED PL anny Om Meee te RRL Sy eee Set pe 
:) The hy fieceke ‘4 re Alt Sine he hate, Fibs a hepa KG Ty ee Say ET oe NOC TEEN: a Ci pe ort i 
+ apt 3 Are ARG os ly K ry] : ~ Sy - e vhs \ 


Make RIeh ry Dame Bi Sea Me) Bn ea Nae! 
ey iy Me ali ee ata 
' Y MY haar, \ 


ee ee 
LN Ss aa] ye 
NY eat ani i fe 
J ‘ t : 
ae) ; 


ment to take stock of the valley and to settle stray 


boot-laces. Then a happy little sigh of contentment 
soughed down the ranks, and it was as though the 
land smiled, for behold there below was the enemy, 
and it was to meet them that the Gurkhas had 


doubled so hastily. There wasmuchenemy. There 
~ _ would be amusement. The little men hitched their 


kukris well to hand, and gaped expectantly at their 


Officers as terriers grin ere the stone is cast for them 


to fetch. The Gurkhas’ ground sloped downward 


tothe valley, and they enjoyed a fair view of the 


proceedings. They sat upon the bowlders to watch, 
for their officers were not going to waste their wind 


in assisting to repulse a Ghazi rush more than half 


amileaway. Let the white men look to their own 


front. 


“Fi! yi!” said the Subadar-Major, who was 
sweating profusely. “Dam fools yonder, stand 


-_ close-order! This is no time for close order, it’s the 


time for volleys. Ugh!” 
Horrified, amused, and indignant, the Gurkhas 


_ beheld the retirement—let us be gentle—of the Fore 


and Aft with a running chorus of oaths and com- 
mentaries. 
“They run! The white menrun! Colonel Sahib, 


may we also do a little running?” murmured Run- 


bir Thappa, the Senior Jemadar. 
But the Colonel would have none of it. ‘ Let the 


- beggars be cut up a little,” said he wrathfully. 


298 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. — 


“Serves ’em right. They’ll be prodded into facing — 
round in a minute.” He looked through his field- 
glasses, and caught the glint of an officer’s sword. 

“ Beating ’em with the flat—damned conscripts! 
How the Ghazis are walking into them!” said he. 

The Fore and Aft, heading back, bore with them 
their officers. The narrowness of the pass forced 
the mob into solid formation, and the rear-rank 
delivered some sort of a wavering volley. . The 
Ghazis drew off, for they did-not know what re- 
serves the gorge might hide. Moreover, it was 
never wise to chase white men too far. They re- 
turned as wolves return to cover, satisfied with the 
slaughter that they had done, and only stopping to 
slash at the wounded on the ground. <A quarter of 
a mile had the Fore and Aft retreated, and now, — 
jammed in the pass, was quivering with pain, shaken 
and demoralized with fear, while the officers, mad- 


dened beyond control, smote the men with ae: hilts = 


and the flats of their won. 

“Get back! Get back, you cowards—you women ! 
Right about face—column of companies, form—you 
hounds!” shouted the Colonel, and the subalterns 
swore aloud. But the Regiment wanted to go—to 
go anywhere out of the range of those merciless 
knives. It swayed to and fro irresolutely with 
shouts and outeries, while from the right the Gur- 
khas dropped volley after volley of cripple-stopper 
Snider bullets at long range into the mob of the 
Ghazis returning to their own troops. | 

The Fore and Aft Band, though protected roe 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 299 


direct fire by the rocky knoll under which it had sat 
down, fled at the first rush. Jakin and Lew would 
have fled also, but their short legs left them fifty 
yards in the rear, and by the time the Band had 
_ mixed with the regiment, they were painfully aware 
that they would have to close in alone and unsup- 
ported. 

“Get back to that rock,” gasped Jakin. “They 


won't see us there.” 


And they returned to the noaitoted instruments 
of the Band ; their hearts nearly bursting their 
ribs. 

“ Here’s a nice show for ws,” said Jakin, throwing 
himself full length on the ground. “ A bloomin’ 
fine show for British Infantry! Oh, the devils! 
They’ve gone an’ left usalone here! Wot’ll we do?” 
Lew took possession of a cast-off water bottle, 
~ which naturally was full of canteen rum, and drank 
till he coughed again. 

“Drink,” said he shortly. “ They'll come back 
in a minute or two—you see.” 

Jakin drank, but there was no sign of the regi- 
ment’s return. They could hear a dull clamor from 
the head of the valley of retreat, and saw the Ghazis 
slink back, quickening their pace as the Gurkhas 
fired at them. 

“ We're all that’s left of the Band, an’ we'll be 
cut up as sure as death,” said Jakin. 

_ “Tl die game, then,” said Lew thickly, fumbling 
with his tiny drummer’s sword. The drink was 
_ working on his brain as it was on Jakin’s. 


300 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


“’Oldon! Iknow something better than fightin’, » 
said Jakin, “stung by the splendor of a sudden 


thought” fee chiefly to rum. “Tip our bloomin’ = : 
cowards yonder the word to come back. The Pay- 
than beggars are well away. Comeon, Lew! We © 


won't get hurt. Take the fife an’ give me the drum. » 
The Old Step for all your bloomin’ guts are worth! — 


There’s a few of our men coming back now. Stand — 


up, ye drunken little defaulter. By re gle : 


quick march!” 


He slipped the drum-sling over his shoulder, ‘dient : 
the fife into Lew’s hand, and the two boys niche z 
out of the cover of the rock into the open, making — 
a hideous hash of the first bars of the “ British 7 


Grenadiers.” 


As Lew had said, a few of the Fore and Aft ore 
coming back aitlenie and shamefacedly under the — 


stimulus of blows and abuse; their red coats shone ~ 


at the head of the valley, and behind them were — 


wavering bayonets. But between this shattered — 
line and the enemy, who with Afghan suspicion — 
feared that the hasty retreat meant an ambush, and — 
had not moved therefore, lay half a mile of a level — 


ground dotted only by the wounded. 


The tune settled into full swing and the boys kept = 
shoulder to shoulder, Jakin banging the drum as ~ 
one possessed. The one fife made a thin and pitiful — 
squeaking, but the tune carried far, even to a 


Ghurkhas. 


“ Come on, you dogs!” muttered Jakin to Hee 2 


“Are we to play fochavert ” Lew was staring = 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 301 


straight in front of him and marching more stiftly 

_ than ever he had done on parade. 

___ And in bitter mockery of the distant mob, the old 
_ tune of the Old Line shrilled and rattled :— 


Some talk of Alexander, 
And some of Hercules ; 
Of Hector and Lysander, 
And such great names as these ! 


There was a far-off clapping of hands from the 
Gurkhas, and a roar from the Highlanders in the 
distance, but never a shot was fired by British or 
_ Afghan. The two little red dots moved forward in 
- the open parallel to the enemy’s front. 


hae, hw vu h te Stet AJ Ye SL 6 ay fav . 
Rpmaae Goan ey ents Cone eH buss 
; ; Pee AT ye Be te) tie ie), oN 


But of all the world’s great heroes 
There’s none that can compare, 
With a tow-row-row-row-row-row, 

To the British Grenadier ! 


aa, ae aa eine. ¥ 
TN 


dl 
Oe pte 


oe a ae 
AS de 1 rae 


The men of the Fore and Aft were gathering 
thick at the entrance into the plain. The Brigadier 
on the heights far above was speechless with rage. 
Still no movement fromthe enemy. The day stayed 

- to watch the children. 

: Jakin halted and beat the long roll of the Assembly, 
while the fife squealed despairingly. 

“Right about face! Hold up, Lew, you’re 
drunk,” said Jakin. They wheeled and marched 
back :— 

a Those heroes of antiquity 


Ne’er saw a cannon-ball, 
Nor knew the force o’ powder, 


a. 
5 = 
E 
ee 
Ra 
Nas 
‘s 


ee 


302 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AF. 

“Here they come!” said Jakin. “Go on, 
Lew ” :— 

To scare their foes withal ! aes 

The Fore and Aft were pouring out of the valley. 
What officers had said to men in that time of shame 
and humiliation will never be known; for neither © 
officers nor men speak of it now. | 

“They are coming anew ! ” shouted a priest among : 
the Afghans. ‘“ Do not kill the boys! Take them — 
alive, and they shall be of our faith.” 


But the first volley had been fired, and Lew 


dropped on his face. Jakin stood for a minute, 
spun round and collapsed, as the Fore and Aft came 
forward, the maledictions of their officers in their 
ears, and in their hearts the shame of open shame. 


Half the men had seen the drummers die, and they 


made no sign. They did not even shout. They — 
doubled out straight across the plain in open order, 
and they did not fire. . 

“ This,” said the Colonel of Gurkhas, softly, “is 
the real attack, as it ought to have i delivered. 
Come on, my aves % | 

“Ulu- laloau ” squealed the Gurkhas, and came _ 
down with a joyful clicking of niki vieious 
Gurkha knives. | 

On theright there was norush. The Highlanders, — 
cannily commending their souls to God (for it mat- 
ters as much toa dead man whether he has been 
shot in a Border scuffle or at Waterloo), opened out 
and fired according to their custom, that is to say - 
without heat and without intervals, while the screw- 


2 Sy 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 303 


guns, having disposed of the impertinent mud fort 


aforementioned, dropped shell after shell into the 


clusters round the flickering green standards on the 
heights. 


_“Charrging is an unfortunate necessity,” mur- 
mured the Color-Sergeant of the right company of 
the Highlanders. 

“Tt makes the men sweer so, but I am thinkin’ 
that it will come to a charrge if these black devils 
stand much longer. Stewarrt, man, you’re firing 
into the eye of the sun, and he’ll not take any harm 
for Government ammuneetion. A foot lower and 
a great deal slower! What are the English doing? 
They’re very quiet there in the center. Running 
again ?” 

The English were not running. They were hacking 
and hewing and stabbing, for though one white man 
is seldom physically a match for an Afghan in a 
sheepskin or wadded coat, yet, through the pressure 
of many white men behind, and a certain thirst for 
revenge in his heart, he becomes capable of doing 
much with both ends of his rifle. The Foreand Aft 
held their fire till one bullet could drive through 
five or six men, and the front of the Afghan force 
gave on the volley. They then selected their men, 
and slew them with deep gasps and short hacking 
coughs, and groanings of leather belts against 
strained bodies, and realized for the first time that 
an Afghan attacked is far less formidable than an 


Afghan attacking; which fact old soldiers might 


have told them. 


304 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE aNd APT 


But they had no old poldlees | in their ranks. 

The Gurkhas’ stall at the bazar was the Rec e 
for the men were engaged—to a nasty noise as oe 
beef being cut on the block—with the kukri, which 
they preferred to the bayonet; well knowing how : 
the Afghan hates the half-moon blade. 

As the Afghans wavered, the green standards on. o 
the mountain moved down to assist them in a last 
rally. Which was unwise. The Lancers chafing in 
the right gorge had thrice despatched their only 
‘subaltern as galloper to report on the progress of — 
affairs. On the third occasion he returned, with a < : 
bullet-graze on his knee, swearing strange onthe me = 
Hindustont and saying that all things were ready. 
So that Souadnon swung round the right of the : 
Highlanders with a wicked whistling of wind inthe 
pennons of its lances, and fell upon the remnant 2 
just when, according to all the rules of war, it ~ 
should have waited for the foe to show more a 
of wavering. 

But it was a dainty charge, deftly delivered, and 
it ended by the Cavalry finding itself at the hoade 
of the pass by which the Afghans intended to re- = 
treat; and down the track that the lances had made a : 
streamed two companies of the Highlanders, which _ 
was never intended by the Brigadier. The new de- _ 
velopment was successful. It detached the one 
from his base as a sponge is torn from a rock, and 
left him ringed about with fire in that pitiless hou 
And as a sponge is chased round the bath-tub by 
the hand of the bather, so were the Atzhans ce 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND arr. 305 


- till they broke into little detachments much more 
- difficult to dispose of than large masses. 

“See!” quoth the Brigadier. ‘Everything has 
come as J arranged. We’ve cut their base, and now 
we'll bucket ’em to pieces.” 

A direct hammering was all that the Brigadier 
had dared to hope for, considering the size of the 
force at his disposal ; but men who stand or fall by 
the errors of their opponents may be forgiven for 
turning Chance into Design. The bucketing went 


forward merrily. The Afghan forces were upon the 
~ yrun—the run of wearied wolves who snarl and bite 


over their shoulders. Thered lances dipped by twos 
and threes, and, with a shriek, up rose the lance-butt, 
like a spar on a stormy sea, as the trooper cantering 


forward cleared his point. The Lancers kept be- 


tween their prey and the steep hills, for all who 
could were trying to escape from the valley of 
death. The Highlanders gave the fugitives two 
hundred yards’ law, and then brought them down, 


= gasping and choking ere they could reach the pro- 


tection of the bowlders above. The Gurkhas fol- 


Zz 5 lowed suit; but the Fore and Aft were killing on 


their own account, for they had penned a mass of 
men between their bayonets and a wall of rock, and 


the flash of the rifles was lighting the wadded 
coats. 


“We cannot hold them, Captain Sahib!” panted 
_a Ressaidar of Lancers. “ Let us ay the carbine. 
The lance is good, but it wastes time.” 


They tried the carbine, and still the enemy melted 
20a 


306 THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


away——fled up the hills by hundreds when there _ : 


were only twenty bullets to stop them. On the 
heights the screw-guns ceased firing—they had run 
out of ammunition—and the Brigadier groaned, for 
the musketry fire could not sufficiently smash the re- — 
treat. Long before the last volleys were fired, the 
litters were out in force looking for the wounded. 
The battle was over, and, but for want of fresh 


troops, the Afghans would have’ been wiped off the | 


earth. As it was they counted their dead by 
hundreds, and nowhere were the dead thicker than 
in the vee of the Fore’and Aft. | 

But the Regiment did not cheer with the High- 
landers, nor did they dance uncouth dances with the 
Gurkhas among the dead. They looked under their 
brows at the Colonel as they leaned upon their rifles 
and panted. 

“Get back to camp, you. Haven’t you dead 
yourself enough for one day! Go and look to the 
wounded. It’s all you’re fit for,” said the Colonel. 
Yet for the past hour the Fore and Aft had been . 
- doing all that mortal commander could expect. 


They had lost heavily because they did not know : 


how to set about their business with proper skill, but 
they had borne themselves gallantly, and this was 
their reward. | 
A young and sprightly Color-Sergeant, who had 
begun to imagine himself a hero, offered his water- 
bottle to a Highlander, whose tongue was black with 
thirst. “I drink with no cowards,” answered the — 
youngster huskily, and, turning to a Gurkha, said, 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 307 


“Hya, Johnny! Drink water gotit?” The Gur- 
kha grinned and passed his bottle. The Fore and 
Aft said no word. 

They went back to camp when the field of strife 
had been a little mopped up and made presentable, 
and the Brigadier, who saw himself a Knight in 
three months, was the only soul who was compli- 
mentary to them. The Colonel was heart-broken 
and the officers were savage and sullen. 

“Well,” said the Brigadier, “they are young 
troops of course, and it was not unnatural that they 
should retire in disorder for a bit.” 

“Oh, my only Aunt Maria!” murmured a junior 
Staff Officer. “ Retire in disorder! It was a bally 
run !” 

“But they came again as we all know,” cooed 
the Brigadier, the Colonel’s ashy-white face before — 
him, “and they behaved as well as could possibly 
be expected. Behaved beautifully, indeed. I was 
watching them. It’s not a matter to take to heart, 
Colonel. As some German General said of his men, 
they wanted to be shooted over a little, that was 
all.” To himself he said : —“ Now they’re blooded 
I can give ’em responsible work. It’s as well that 
they got what they did. *Teach ’em more than half 
a dozen rifle flirtations, that will—later—run alone 
and bite. Poor old: Colonel, though.” 

All that afternoon the heliograph winked and 
flickered on the hills, striving to tell the good news 
to a mountain forty miles away. And in the even- 
ing there arrived, dusty, sweating, and sore, a mis- 


at a trumpery village- -burning and. a eT read ¢ 0 
the message from afar, cursing his luck the wh ile. 

“ Let’s have the details somehow—as full as. ev 
you can, please. It’s the first time I’ve ever be 
left this campaign,” said the Correspondent to the 
Brigadier ; and the Brigadier, nothing loath, 
him how an Army of Communication had be 
crumpled up, destroyed, and all but annihilated by 
the craft, strategy, wisdom, and fore of the 
Beds. : 

But some say, and among these be~ the ‘Gaskin a 
who watched on the hillside, that that battle was 
won by Jakin and Lew, whose little bodies were 
borne up just in time to fit two gaps at the head of 
the big ditch-grave for the dead ae the hehe 
of Jagai. 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 


ey 


Because to every purpose there 1s time and judgment; 
therefore the misery of man is great upon him.—E eel. viii. 6. 


Fate and the Government of India have turned 
the Station of Kashima into a prison, and because 
there is no help for the poor souls who are now lying 
there in torment, I write this story, praying that 
the Government of India may be moved to scatter 
the European population to the four winds. 

Kashima is bounded on all sides by the rock-tipped 
circle of the Dosehri hills. In Spring, it is ablaze 
with roses: in Summer, the roses die and the hot 
winds blow from the hills; in Autumn, the white 
mists from the jhils cover the place as with water, 
and in Winter the frosts nip everything young and 
tender to earth level. There is but one view in 
Kashima—that of a stretch of perfectly flat pasture 
and plow-land, running up-to the gray-blue scrub of 
the Dosehri hills. 

There are no amusements except snipe and tiger 
shooting; but the tigers have been long since 
hunted from their lairs in the rock-caves, and the 


snipe only come once a year. Narkarra—one hun- 
$ 3 309 


310 A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 


dred and forty-three miles by road—is the nearest 
station to Kashima. But Kashima never goes to 


Narkarra, where there are at least twelve English = 


people. It stays within the circle of the Dosehri 
hills. oes 

All Kashima acquits Mrs. Vansuythen of any in- 
tention to do harm; but all Kashima knows that 
she, and she alone, brought about their pain. 

Boulte, the engineer, Mrs. Boulte, and Captain 
Kurrell know this. They are the English population — 
of Kashima, if we except Major Vansuythen, who 
is of no importance whatever, and Mrs. Vansuythen, 
who is the most important of all. 

You must remember, though you will not under- 
stand, that all laws weaken in a small and hidden ~ 
community where there is no public opinion. If the 
Israelites had been only a ten-tent camp of gypsies, 
their Headman would never have taken the trouble | 
to climb a hill and bring down the lithographed edi- — 
tion of the Decalogue, and a great deal of trouble - 
would have been avoided. Whena man is absolutely 
alone in a Station, he runs a certain risk of falling 
into evil ways. This risk is multiplied by every 
addition to the population up to twelve—the Jury — 
number. After that, fear and consequent restraint 
begin, and human action becomes less grotesquely 
jerky. | 
There was deep peace in Kashima till Mrs. Van- 
- suythenarrived. She wasa charming woman, every — 
one said so everywhere ; and she charmed every one. — 
In spite of this, or, perhaps because of this, since — 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 311 


Fate is so maliciously perverse, she cared only for 
one man, and he was Major Vansuythen. Had she 
been plain or stupid, this matter would have been 
intelligible to Kashima. But she was a fair woman, 
with very still gray eyes, the color of a lake just be- 
fore the light of the sun touches it. No man who 
had seen those eyes could, later on, explain what 
fashion of woman she was to look upon. The eyes 
dazzled him. Her own sex said that she was “ not 
bad looking, but spoiled by pretending to be so 
grave.” And yet her gravity was natural. It was 
not her habit to smiley She merely went through 
life, looking at those who passed ; and the women 
objected, while the men fell down and worshiped. 

She knows and is deeply sorry for the evil she 
has done to Kashima; but Major Vansuythen can- 
not understand why Mrs. Boulte does not drop in to 
afternoon tea at least three times a week. “ When 
there are only two women in one Station, they 
ought to see a great deal of each other,” says Major 
- Vansuythen. 

Long and long before ever Mrs. Vansuythen came 
out of those far-away places where there is society 
and amusement, Kurrell had discovered that Mrs. 
Boulte was the one woman in the world for him, 
and—you dare not blame them. Kashima was as 
-outof the world as Heaven or the other place, and 
the Dosehri hills kept their secret. well. Boulte 
had no concern in the matter. He was in camp for 
a fortnight at a time. He was a hard, heavy man, 
and neither Mrs. Boulte nor Kurrell. pitied him, 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 


They had all Kashima and ich other for dae very, 
very own; and Kashima was the Garden of Eden. 
in those dae When Boulte returned from his 
wanderings he would slap Kurrell between the 
shoulders and call him “old fellow,” and the three : 
would dine together. Kashima was happy then 
when the de of God seemed almost as distant. 
as Narkarra or the railway that ran down to the sea. 
But the Government sent Major ees to 
Kashima, and with him came his wife. ee 
The etiquette of Kashima is much the same as 
that of a desert island. When a-stranger is cast 2 
away there, all hands go down to the shore to make 
him molcomie: Kashima assembled at the masonry — 
platform close to the Narkarra Road, and spread 
tea for the Vansuythens. That ceremony was 
reckoned a formal call, and made them free of the 
‘Station, its rights and privileges. When the Van- 
suythens were settled down, they gave a tin 
house-warming to all Kashima; and that made 
Kashima fren of their house, ‘according to the 
immemorial usage of the Bahn. 
Then the ee came, when no one could. roxe) » into 
camp, and the Narkarra Road was washed away 
by the Kasun River, and in the cup-like pastures of 
Kashima the cattle waded knee-deep. The clouds 
dropped down from the Dosehri hills and covered 
everything. a ies 
At the end of the Rains, Boulte’s manner tree : 
his wife changed and became demonstratively. affec. 
tionate. They had been married twelve pe and 


ERAN er Pac ee Bk 
Rea cs ah he 


hres FU ey St See” Se wa 
PERE er ES 
* Sut Yk 
¥ * 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. ola : 


“> the change startled Mrs. Boulte, who hated her 


husband with the hate of a woman who has met 
with nothing but kindness, from her mate, and, in 
the teeth of this kindness, has done him a great 
wrong. Moreover, she had her own trouble to fight 
with—her watch to keep over her own property, 
Kurrell. For two months the Rains had hidden 
the Dosehri hills and many other things beside; 
but, when they lifted, they showed Mrs. Boulte that 
her man among men, her Ted—for she called him 


~ Ted in the old days when Boulte was out of ear- 


shot—was slipping the links of the allegiance. 

“The Vansuythen Woman has taken him,” Mrs. 
Boulte said to herself ; and when Boulte was away, 
wept over her belief, in the face of the over-vehement 
blandishments of Ted. Sorrow in Kashima is as 


fortunate as Love, in that there is nothing to weaken 


it save the flight of Time. Mrs. Boulte had never 


breathed her suspicion to Kurrell, because she was 


-_ not certain ; and her nature led her to be very cer- 


tain before she took steps in any direction. That is 
why she behaved as she did. 

Boulte came into the house one evening, and leaned 
against the door-post of the drawing-room, chewing 
his mustache. Mrs. Boulte was putting some flowers 
into a vase. There is a pretense of civilization even 
in Kashima. 

“ Little woman,” said Boulte, quietly, “do you 


care for me?” 


“Immensely,” said she, with a laugh. “Can you 


ask it?” 


314 A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 


“But Pm serious,” said Boulte. “Do you. care 
for me?” — 
“Mrs. Boulte dropped the flowers, and ‘need 


round wee “Do you want an Hones sees ee 
“ Ye-es; ve asked for it.” . 


Mrs. Boalts spoke in a low, even voice for five 


minutes, very distinctly, that there might be no ae 


indi nding her meaning. When Samson 
broke the pillars “ot Gaza, he did a little thing, and 
one not to be compared to the deliberate pulling 
down of a woman’s homestead about her own ears. 
There was no wise female friend to advise Mrs. 
Boulte, the singularly cautious wife, to hold her ~ 


hand. Shestruck at Boulte’s heart, because her own oes 


was sick with suspicion of Kurrell, and worn out — 
with the long strain of watching alone through the 


Rains. There was no plan or purpose in her speak- _ 


ing. The sentences made themselves; and Boulte — 
listened, leaning against the door-post with his — 
hands in his pockets. When all was over, and Mrs. _ 
Boulte began to breathe through her nose before — 
breaking out into tears, he laughed and stared 
straight in front of him at the Dosehri hills. a 
“Ts that all?” he said. “Thanks; I only wanted 
to know, you know.” | 


ss What are you going to do?” said the woman, _ 


between her sobs. 


“Do! Nothing. What shouldIdo? Kill Kur 


rell or send you home, or apply for leave to geta 
divorce? It’s two days’ dak into Narkarra.” He 


laughed again and went on: “T’'ll tell you what you a - 


Or, el eee 
UPtaraie era ight 
’ Tye on pose sed 
ee 
as 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 315 


cando. Youcan ask Kurrell to dinner to-morrow— 
no, on Thursday, that will allow you time to pack— 
and you can bolt with him. I give you my word, 
I won’t follow.” 

He took up his helmet and went out of the room, 


and Mrs. Boulte sat till the moonlight streaked the 


floor, thinking and thinking and thinking. She had 
done her best upon the spur of the moment to pull the 
house down; but it would not fall. Moreover, she 


could not understand her husband, and she was 


afraid. Then the folly of her useless truthfulness 
struck her, and she was ashamed to write to Kurrell, 
saying: “I have gonemad and told everything. My 
husband says that Iam free to elope with you. Geta 
dak for Thursday, and we will fly after dinner.” 
There was a cold-bloodedness about that procedure 
which did not appeal to her. So she sat still in her 
own house and thought. 

At dinner-time Boulte came back from his walk, 
white and worn and haggard, and the woman was 
touched at his distress. As the evening wore on, 
she muttered some expression of sorrow, something 
approaching to contrition. Boulte came out ofa 
brown study, and said: “Oh, that¢/ I wasn’t think- 
ing about that. By the way, what does Kurrell say 
to the elopement ?” | 

“T haven’t seen him,” said Mrs. Boulte. “Good 
God! is that all?” 

But Boulte was not listening, and her sentence 
ended in a gulp. | 

The next day brought no comfort to Mrs. Bouite, 


ae ee 


_to be no nearer. ; 


_ Arab pony fed in the conde and went. out. e: 


‘She had finished her crying in the night, and now she 


then Woman would talk to her; and, since talking 


Mrs. Boulte put ona big terai hat, and walked acr | 


“Queen.” The two compounds touched, and instead 


heard, behind the purdah that cloaked the drawin 


then hadn’t been withyou. Ifit is for her sake 


mind ae It’s Kurrell——” 


—Boulte eat his breakfast, advised her tome 


morning wore through, and at midday the ton 
became unendurable. Mrs. Boulte could not. re 


did not want to be left alone. Perhaps the Van 


opens the heart, perhaps there might be some comfort 
to be foundin her company. She was the Ka other 
woman in the Station. 

In Kashima there are no regular calling honrs, 
Every one can drop in upon every one else at pleasure 


to the Vansuythens’ one to borrow last week 


of going up the drive, she crossed throwen the ga ) 
in the cactus-hedge, entering the house from th 
back. As she passed through the dining-room, she 


room dor, her husband’s voice, saying : 

“But on my Honor! On my Soul and Honor 
tell you she doesn’t care for me. She told me so 
last night. I would have told you then if Vansu : 


you'll have nothing to say to me, you can — 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. ~ S1e 


little laugh. “Kurrell! Oh, itcan’t be! Youtwo 
must have made some horrible mistake. Perhaps 
_ you—you lost your temper, or misunderstood, or 
something. Things can’t be as wrong as you say.” 

Mrs. Vansuythen had shifted her defense to avoid 
_ the man’s pleading, and was desperately trying to 
_ keep him to a side-issue. 

_ “There must be some mistake,” she insisted, “ and 
it can be all put right again.” 

Boulte laughed grimly. : 

“Tt can’t be Captain Kurrell! He told me that 
he had never taken the least—the least interest in 
your wife, Mr. Boulte. Oh, do listen! He said he 
had not. He swore he had not,” said Mrs. Vansuy- 
then. 

The purdah rustled, and the speech was cut short 
by the entry of a little, thin woman, with big rings 
round her eyes. Mrs. Vansuythen stood up with 
a gasp. 

“What was that you said?” asked Mrs. Boulte. 
_ “Never mind that man. What did Ted say to 
you? What did he say to you? What did he say 
to you?” | 

_ Mrs. Vansuythen sat down helplessly on the sofa, 
_ overborne by the trouble of her questioner. 

“He said—I can’t remember exactly what he 
said—but I understood him to say—that is... 
But, really, Mrs. Boulte, isn’t it une a strange 
question ? ” 

_ * Wall you tell me what he said?” repeated Mrs. 
 Boulte. Even a tiger will fly before a bear robbed 


318 A WAYSIDE COMEDY. _ 


of her whelps, and Mrs. Vansuythen. was only an ee 
ordinarily good woman. She began in a sort of 
desperation: “ Well, he said that he never cared for —__ 


you at all, and, of course, there was not the least 


weet 


reason Why i should have, and—and—that Ve : S 


ait? 


“You said he swore he had not cared for me. 


Was that true?” 
“Yes,” said Mrs. Vansuythen, very softly. — 
Mrs. Paulie wavered for an instant where she stood, 
and then fell forward fainting. 


“What did I tell you?” said Bares as though _ aa 


the conversation had been unbroken. “ You can see — 


for yourself. She cares for hem.” The light began 


to break into his dull mind, and he went on: “And 


~he—what was he saying to you?” 


et 


But Mrs. Vansuythen, with no heart for sane oe 
tions or impassioned protestations, was ee over pen 


Mrs. Boulte. 


“ Oh, you brute!” she cried. “ Are all men like oe 
this? Help me to get her into my room—and her 


face is cut against the table. Oh, w7ld you be quiet, eo 
and help me to carry her? I hate you, and I hate 


Captain Kurrell. Lift her up carefully, and now— ~ ae 


go! Goaway!” 


Boulte carried his wife into Mrs. Vansuythen’s 
bedroom, and departed before the storm of that 
lady’s wrath and disgust, impenitent and burning — Bee 


with jealousy. Kurrell had been making love to 8 


Mrs. Vansuythen—would do Vansuythen as great - : 
a wrong as he had done Boulte, who caught himself =—__ 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. old 


considering whether Mrs. Vansuythen would faint 
if she discovered that the man she loved had fore- 
sworn her. 

In the middle of these meditations, Kurrell came 
cantering along the road and pulled up with a 
cheery: “Good-mornin’. ’Been mashing Mrs. Van- 
suythen as usual, eh? Bad thing for a sober mar- 
ried man, that. What will Mrs. Boulte say ?” 

Boulte raised his head and said, slowly : 

“Oh, you har!” Kurrell’s face changed. 

“ What’s that ?” he asked, quickly. 

“ Nothing much,” said Boulte. “Has my wife 
told you that you two are free to go off whenever 
you please? She has been good enough to explain 
‘the situation to me: You’ve been a true friend to 
me, Kurrell—old man—haven’t you?” 

‘Kurrell groaned, and tried to frame some sort of 
idiotic sentence about being willing to give “ satis- 
faction.” But his interest in the woman was dead, 
had died out in the Rains, and, mentally, he was 
abusing her for her amazing indiscretion. It would 
have been so easy to have broken off the Liaison 
gently and by degrees, and now he was saddled 
with ... Boulte’s voice recalled him. 

be don't think I should get any satisfaction fons 
killing you, and ’m pretty sure you'd get none 
from killing me.” 

Then in a querulous tone, ludicrously dispropor- 
tioned to his wrongs, Boulte added : 

“Seems rather a pity that you haven’t the de- 
cency to keep to the woman, now you’ve got her, 


was getting beyond him. | 
vs What do you mean ?” he said. 


just now: and it seems you’d bean: tellin g Me. = 
- Vansuythen that you'd never cared - for Emma. I = 
suppose you lied, as usual. What had Mrs. V 
then to do with you, or you with her? ae 
the truth for once in a way.” — 7 
- Kurrell took the double insult vithowes 
. and replied by another question: == 
“Goon. What happened?” ; 
“Emma fainted,” said oe Sn 


— tongue, made havee of his pies 
least retaliate by hurting the man in who 
was humiliated and shown dishonorable. 
“Said to her? What does a man tell alie like — a 
that for? I suppose I said pretty much what: 
said, unless ’m a good deal mistaken.” 
oy spoke the truth,” said Boulte, again 
himself than Kurrell. “ Emma, told me sh 
- me. She has no right j Themes 
“No! Isuppose not. Youw’re only h 
— y’know. And what did Mrs. Vansuythe 
had laid your oes: heart at = 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 321 


rel felt almost,virtuous as fe put the question. 
“JT don’t think that matters,” Boulte replied ; 
_ “and it doesn’t concern you.” 

-* But it does! I tell you it does,” began Kurrell, 

shamelessly. 
_ The sentence was cut by a roar of laughter from 
- Boulte’s lips. Kurrell was silent for an instant, 
- and then he, too, laughed—laughed long and loudly, 
rocking in his saddle. It was an unpleasant sound 
—the mirthless mirth of these menon the long, white 


~ line of the Narkarra Road. There were no stran- 


gers in Kashima, or they might have thought that 
captivity within the Dosehri hills had driven half 
_ the European population mad. The laughter stopped 
abruptly. Kurrell was the first to speak. 
“Well, what are you going to do?” 
= Boulte looked up the road, and at the hills: 
“Nothing,” said he, quietly. “ What’s the use? 
_ It’s too ghastly for anything. We must let the old 
life goon. I can only call you a hound and a liar, 
and I can’t goon calling you names forever. Besides 
~ which, I don’t feel that I’m much better. We can’t 
get out of this place, y know. What zs there to do?” 
Kaurrell looked round the rat-pit of Kashima, and 
made no reply. The injured husband took up the 
wondrous tale. 
“Ride on, and speak to Emma if you want to. 
God knows 7 don’t care what you do.” 
He walked forward, and left Kurrell gazing 
punky after him. Kurrell did not ride on either 


3 | 


399, A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 


to see Mrs. Boulte or Mrs. Vansuythen, He sat in a - 
his saddle and thought, while his pony ee ee = ee 


the roadside. 


- The whir of approaching wheels roused” him. ao 
Mrs. Vansuythen was driving home Mrs. Boulte, se 


white and wan, with a cut on her forehead. S 
“Stop, piece. ” said Mrs. Boulte; “I oe to 
speak to Ted.” 


Mrs. Vansuythen obeyed, but as Mrs. Boule 
leaned forward, putting her hand upon the splash-— ee 


board of the dowd art, Kurrell spoke. 
“‘ ve seen your nab: Mrs. Boulte.” 


There was no necessity for any further explana- aS 
tion. The man’s eyes were fixed, not upon Mrs. © ee 


look, 


Boulte, but her companion. Mrs. Boulte saw the ae 


“Speak to him!” she pleaded, fore to ie. ae 


woman at her side. “Oh, speak tohim! Tell him 
what you told me just now., Tell him you hate 


him! ‘Tell him you hate him!” 


She bent forward and wept bitterly, while the . ee 
sais, decorously impassive, went forward to hold 
the horse. Mrs. Vansuythen turned scarlet and 


dropped the rein. She wished to be no party to 
such an unholy explanation. 


eye nothing to do with it,” she began, coldly ; ore 
but Mrs. oa sobs overcame her, and she jade = 


dressed herself to the man. ‘I don’t know what I 


am to say, Captain Kurrell. 1 don’t know what I- . - 
can call you. I think you’ve—you’ve behaved 


A WAYSIDE COMEDY. $93 


abominably, and she has cut her forehead terribly 
against the table.” 

“Tt doesn’t hurt. It isn’t anything,” said Mrs. 
Boulte, feebly. ‘“ Zhat doesn’t matter. Tell him 


what you told me. Say you don’t care for him. 


” : husband first.” 


Oh, Ted, won't you believe her?” 

“Mrs. Boulte has made me understand that you 
were—that you were fond of her once upon a time,” 
went on Mrs. Vansuythen. 

“Well!” said Kurrell, brutally. “It seems to | 
me that Mrs. Boulte had better be fond of her own 

.“Stop!” said Mrs. Vansuythen. ‘“ Hear me 
first. I don’t care—I don’t want to know anything 
about youand Mrs. Boulte; but I want you to know 
that I hate you, that I think you are a cur, and that 
Til never, never speak to you again. Oh, I don’t 
dare to say what I think of you, you... man! 


on Sais, gorah ko jane do.” 


“T want to speak to Ted,” moaned Mrs. Boulte; 
but the dog-cart rattled on, and Kurrell was left on 
the road, shamed, and boiling with wrath against 
Mrs. Boulte. 

He waited till Mrs. Vansuythen was driving back 
to her own house, and she being freed from the embar- 
rassment of Mrs. Boulte’s presence, learned for the 
second time a truthful opinion of himself and his 
actions. 

In the evenings it was the wont of all Kashima 
to meet at the platform on the Narkarra Road, to 


}- 


and unearthing the OR nILEEE oe 
“Sitting in the twilight!” said he, 


me dignation, to the Boultes. “ That?ll 


Hang it all, we’re one family here! You 
out, and so must Kurrell. | 
oe 


ee abit add fopleed at. Kechie ae 
was clear. Major Vansuythen wore ne 
any thing. He was to be the oe t. 


: bel z said the Major, truthfully. 

banjo.” 

=. And he sung: ra -wise. til 
= came a and Kashima went to > dinner. 


tc Le was loosened in she twilight. 
“Mrs. Vansuythen has never told the Major; and 
since he insists upon the maintenance of a burden- 
some geniality, she has been compelled to break her 
vow of not speaking to Kurrell. This speech, which 
must of necessity preserve the semblance of polite- 
ness and interest, serves admirably to keep alight the 
flame of jealousy and dull hatred in Boulte’s bosom, 
as it awakens the same passions in his wife’s heart. 
rs. Boulte hates Mrs. Vansuythen because she has 
taken Ted from her, and, in some curious fashion, 

ates her because Mrs. eee then—and here the 
fe’s eyes see far more clearly than the husband’s 

detests Ted. And Ted—that gallant captain and 
honorable man—knows now that it is possible to — 
hate a woman once loved, even to the verge of - 
wishing to silence her forever with blows. Above 
all, is he shocked that Mrs. Boulte cannot see the 
error of her ways. 

 Boulte and he go out tiger-shooting together in 
amity and all good friendship. Boulte has put their — 
relationship on a most satisfactory footing. 

~ “Yow’re a blackguard,” he says to Kurrell, “and 
. . lost any self-respect I may ever have had: : a 


we, 


326 A WAYSIDE COMEDY. 


- gether, and then the Major insists upon his wife 
going over to sit with Mrs. Boulte; although Mrs. 
Vansuythen has repeatedly avowed that she prefers 
her husband’s company to any in the world. From 
the way in which she clings to him, she would cer- 
tainly appear to be speaking the truth. : 

But of course, as the Major says, “ina little Sta- 
tion we must all be friendly.” | 


THE END. 


Gee 


~ 


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< 


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ee etc a 


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> —_—— 


